Sunday, May 30, 2010

When There's an Itch . . .

Well the weather cleared a little this morning so Lily and I went for our constitutional walk. It was cold but dry and you could be forgiven for thinking that we lived in the country rather than the suburbs:

 Plenty of water in the man made creeks . . yep this one is totally man made . . .

 Even a billabong . . this one's natural . . . 

 Labradors have no nerve endings . . .

 Some things still bloom . . 
Coming back through the paddock we were greeted by two extremely dirty ponies, one of which had an itch . . so what do you do? Hell, scratch!

Much better . . he's actually white!

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Friday Fagwit

I'm a little late this week with the Friday Fuckwit thanks to my propensity to talk too much and use Friday as an excuse to crack open a bottle so depending where you are, and just for shits and giggles, here's our Friday Fuckwit or if you're in my hemisphere, the Saturday Shithead. Many of you will have seen this and I had to watch it several times to makes sure it was the real McCoy . . .I'm still a little wary but I'm not sure who the dickheads are here, the parents, the press, the kid . . . holy schmoly:

Have a wonderful weekend - it's pouring here so looking forward to a weekend of couch potatoism and catching up on your blog posts . . .remember whatever you do . . .don't smoke! (hmmm . . .pots and kettles flying around here!)

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Fingers Like Prunes

I can't for the life of me work out why modern houses bother installing a bath in the bathroom other than it would become a 'shower' room, or a 'sink' room which sounds a bit funny . .well you know what I mean. Then we actually call going to the toilet, visiting the bathroom even when the toilet is separate and clearly there's no bath in the toilet . . .

My point is, that these days, baths themselves are too small and useless to be of any resorative or relaxing use. They're good for bathing babies, washing the dog (although mine prefers the shower)  and exceptional for accumulating dust, catching stray hairs and dead flies. At least that's all my bath is used for these days. It's just a big porcelain hole that I have to clean every week!

Very occasionally,  the mood will take me. You know how it goes, home alone, run a bath (although I usually have a shower first and do the obligatory shave and shampoo thing).  Splosh in something smelly and sweet. Light a few candles and fragrant oil burners. Slap on a peel off mask, pour a glass of bubbly, make a little pillow from a towel and sink into the fragrant waters with a sigh. Are you with me ladies?

Problem is that I'm 172 cm tall and the inside of my bath about 165cms long. The bath isn't deep enough to cover even half of my ample bosom, leaving crippled nipples exposed and I end up with my folded knees, goose-pimpled and poking above the bubbles, body bent, like a consatina'd cadaver or a Brett Whitely model excruciatingly bent in the bath. Alternatively, I can slink down into the bath so that my torso is nicely marinated in said fragrant waters but then my thighs, calves and feet are well exposed and resting uncomfortably on the taps or spread eagled either side on the tap end of the bath rim as if I'm about to partake of a water birth.

This is where hotels come in. They at least have a decent sized bath that you can languish in, or better still, a spa where you can be pummelled and pushed, whilst neck-deep in froth and simply luxuriate until your feet and fingers wrinkle like prunes.

Yep, in this one of few cases, after imbibing in a luxurient bath, I simply don't care who sees my wrinkles!

Check out what the other Theme Thursday mob are doing with their Wrinkles

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

I'm an Administrative Bungle

I was a bit of a snot box on Monday so did what any self-respecting Australian public servant would do and took a sickie. I thought whilst testing Mr Kleenex's Eucalyptus tissues, I might as well finally get my passport application in and my income tax return completed.
I've had all my tax papers together for some time but the hours I work make it difficult to get to an agent so decided I'd do it myself online. However, because I was made redundant in the last financial year, I've got a rather odd group certificate that I can't load on the online form.

Looks like I'll have to fork out for an accountant after all. How I'm going to get there between the hours of 6pm and 6am I do not know.  Plus someone told me that they fine you $110 a day for each day late. That can't be right! I'm now 4 days late! (God sound like a pregnant teenager).

Then, I made an appointment to go up to my local  Post Office for an interview and to lodge my passport application but . . oh yeah  . . thanks Ross you silly vet, you signed the back of the photo with your own name you twit and didn't fill in the guarantor page! BLAH. Fortunately you didn't sign all the photos so I now have to find another guarantor. 

I am blessed to be surrounded by friends who are teachers. These apparently are indeed 'allowed' guarantors (along with my local pharmacist who doesn't know me from a bar of soap) for a passport application so that shouldn't be too much of a problem.

The visit however wasn't entirely wasted since apparently, much like many marriages, my Marriage Certificate is no longer valid! How did that happen?

Apparently if you have a Marriage Certificate that's more than 10 years old, you have to apply for an updated certificate. I think it probably has more information on it like your waist size when you fitted into your wedding dress 30 years ago just to remind you of the fact that everything is now heading south . . but no worries.

You just log into their website, fill in the form and fax it through with a credit card payment for $65! Yes I said "sixty five dollars" WTF?

I already have a marriage certificate! Pity about the husband, he carked it 20 years ago . . . and now I have to get another . .erm certificate, not husband, although I'm not adverse to that if there are any takers? 

The irony is that to change my name back to my maiden name by Deed Poll only costs $35 . . now just how much do I like my Married name?

At least I don't have to go through the wedding bit!

Is 11:28 am too early for a drinky poo?

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Faux Paws

Of all the pets I’ve owned in a lifetime, some were more durable than others. Not all my pet choices have been wise ones. Many in fact have just been big faux pas!

George. I’m not sure where he came from but I do remember my father drilling a hole on the edge of his shell and tying a piece of string to prevent him from escaping. Whatever gave him the idea that this was even slightly humane escapes me but poor old George died of fright after being continually flipped by a nosey Labrador.

Ok they were beautiful and they had a dove cote lovingly made by my father and apart from the time one flew down the chimney and spluttered soot everywhere and the fact that they were all eventually eaten by possibly Sox next door . .they were a reasonably successful experiment and actually raised two chicks.

Well actually only one and arguably my first pet if you don’t count the family dog. Hamish was very sweet and I was very diligent in his care although the powers that be (parents) decided that I should be solely responsible for his upkeep. I cleaned his cage religiously, I entertained him on my shoulder and in my hands, I fed him plenty. I did however, neglect his water bowl. RIP Hamish, I’m really sorry. Your death was an exercise in irresponsible parenting.

Grandma wanted to buy Adam a tank and had seen a dinky little plastic hexagonal thing at K-mart that was on special. It came with all requirements including plastic weed and a tiny pump and was small enough to fit a couple of goldfish or half a dozen tetras on the kitchen bench. Would have been fine apart from the fact that it sounded like a women’s pleasure machine and went green at the drop of a hat. Naturally we upgraded to the real McCoy and killed several hundred fish in the process due to inadequate water testing, disease and overchlorination of the water. Nope. We don’t have any more fish.

So cute aren’t they? Well yes until one little brindle mouse gets so fat that it virtually implodes and is found stiff and rotund under its happy wheel. (er Tiger, you were supposed to get ‘on’ the wheel, not fall asleep underneath it) and of course once Tiger bit the dust, Pinky had a conniption and began over grooming. Possibly the stinkage from unclean wood shavings that I ended up cleaning despite protestations from my son that they were his mice and he’d look after them. So, with a festering sore that could not be medicated, my $5 mouse ended up costing $75 to be euthanased via green dream. I know, if I was more of a ‘man’ I’d have hit the bloody thing on the head with a brick!

Not a bad option. I only had one cat but I had her for 17 years. Although I would profer a little advice. Sexing a kitten is not easy so when an unscrupulous breeder sells you a Male Burmese and it starts meowing and climbing the curtains, you can bet that there’s something awry. I found out the hard way by trying to describe whether the orifice underneath it’s tail was in fact a ‘dot’ or a ‘slit’ over the telephone to the vet. After acknowledging that “Basil” was indeed a girl and had a ‘slit’ . . she was promptly desexed and frankly I never looked back. Yes, a homebody cat is a fine pet as long as you are not allergic and don’t value your boucle furnishings.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Well except the first horse:

Dusty – Bought with birthday money sent by my Nana. Blue eyed – pretty – mad – dangerous. I had her for 8 years virtually as a form of transport then sold her on to a breeder to buy a car. That should have been the end of it.

Bunwarra Nakia (Nicky) - Ex cutting quarter horse cross. Bought at auction in a moment of madness with borrowed money. Trucked home and spent his first night in our suburban back yard next to the swimming pool! Lived a long time and was buried in our back paddock. Hated being caught, couldn’t walk, only had two buttons – “Jog” and “Gallop” but awesome bomb-proof fun.

Shane – (Poonnie)bought from my sister so that she could pay the bond on a flat when she moved out of home. Fortunately, given to a nice lady in Mudgee to ride on the weekends. His was indeed a happy ending. Well deserved, he was a happy horse.

Lasalle Royal Flash (Laurie) – bought 14 years ago for Clare to ride but also big enough for me to swing the leg over if I had a milk crate to stand on. Turned out to be a handful so he became mine. Fun for four years, now I can’t swing the legover and he’s in retirement.

Yorkston Classic – (Chippy) – bought shortly after Laurie and much more manageable for Clare.

The last two are now expensive lawn mowers requiring a manicure every six weeks and in dire need of a haircut. They too will most likely end up on the end of a back-hoe joining Nicky in his foxy grave. Laurie has a sweet freckly nose though and he talks a LOT.

OK I think that’s quite enough. All in all. Dogs have been the prevailing pets. They’re fun, they get you out of the house, they’re loyal, cuddly, sweet faced and just rubbable. They don’t eat much and unless you have to pay for a complete knee construction they’re quite economical to run. Yep definitely a dog person.

My three favourite pets:

Don't forget to check out other "Pets" on Theme Thursday

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Like Being Kissed by God

Once she was lifted from the abyss and kissed by God. . or that's how she remembers it.

Mary picks the scabs that litter her forearms like tiny mites.

Popping makes the brown last longer by injecting just under the skin. Precious cargo this smack and needs to be strung out in order to string out. It's a quick fix when her veins collapse but these days, only profers a lift, no longer a high. It's been a long time since she was brushed by the lips of God . . . a very long time. There's no more buzz, just craving, needing, a hankering she can't deny, can't live without. It has its mistress and is an unforgiving master. She is enslaved, entrapped, endangered.

Lank hair, unkempt and unwashed, has replaced her toussled locks. Her ample mouth, long since indulged in tender kisses is cracked, parched and sore. Her bright and optimistic eyes are empty and forlorn. There is no beauty for them to scope round here. Her words are slurred and slow, even when she isn't using. Her friends long gone, her family cautious. She can't remember when she last ate but whatever she eats only has flavour when she's high.

Her lovers have given way to paying punters. No difference, pay them no mind. It's a commodity like any other cool and calculated but it pays the rent, feeds the beast, and she feels no sensation anyway. There's no pleasure, no pain except at the end of a needle. Today, that's only little prick that satisfies.

The sub oozed its first dull thuds from under the gap in the doorway above the stairwell then exploded into a technoswirl of light and a cacophany of sweet sound. The bass vibrations swept through her body accelerating every particle, providing its own kind of rush.

She strolled into the mele, her arm entwined in his. Breathing in his intoxicating scent and idolising his every move. He was self-assured, handsome, talkative, persuasive. What he saw in a plain girl like her amazed and flattered her but he saw something. He loved her . . . or so he said. He'd take care of her . . or so he said . . .she was his life . . or so he said. She'd do anything for him, with him, to him. Besotted didn't cut it, she was in love, deeply, permanently irrevocably.

The bourbon and cokes she’d imbibed earlier were warming her skin, loosening her tendons, relaxing her form. She was woozy and euphoric rather than inebriated but in that place between suggestion and sleep, hypnotic and happy.

She didn't know anyone there other than him and clung like a limpit waiting for introductions.
The introduction she received was not one she expected.

A rapid and secretive exchange for a small foil pack and 'gear'. A dark corner and a tiny table. A candle, a spoon, a rubber tourniquet. "C'mon baby, you'll love it . . " he cajoled. She resisted, just slightly. Sure she'd dropped the odd pill, snorted the odd line but never envisaged more than a short dance with the devil.
Her perfect unpierced, body was unaccustomed to external abuse. She found it hard to contemplate the violation of a needle let alone its insidious contents but the bourbon worked its wicked way and made her swoon and submit to suggestion.

She had become compliant and soft and easy. "Just once . . " he whispered. His warm sweet breath covering her in lust and longing, " . . live like there's no tomorrow!"

. . and now she does.

This month's entry in the 10th Daughter of Memory
Please take a look, have a crack! Oops, no pun intended.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Let's Face It

Just a little rant because . . I like
Facebook. I don't use it that often . . lies . . I log in once or twice a day, catch up on virtual and real friends, find the odd old lost forgotten friend and sometimes put something silly in the box at the top.

One thing I understand about
Facebook is that it's a social networking site. It's free and somehow the silicon valley kings have to pay for its upkeep. How do they do that? Targeted advertising. So why are so many people upset about a violation of privacy on Facebook? It only draws the information you choose to put on it. Yep YOU CHOOSE.

I don't get it. If you want a private conversation you can do that through a number of media from snail
mail or a simple telephone call through to chat on apps such as Google Chat or Skype, both of which I use frequently and both of which require a minimum of information about the user in order to register.

There's a
brouhaha brewing at the moment because Facebook is constantly changing it's privacy policy or because people simply don't know how to set privacy settings. Now c'mon. You don't get behind the wheel of a car without having a modicum of knowledge as to how to operate a vehicle so why would you join a world wide social networking site if you don't know how it works?

If you don't want people to know your identity, where you live, what school you attended or to look at your photos, for God's sake don't upload them. If you do have private information on your profile but insist on playing
Farmville or scrabble or downloading a number of stupid applications . . .expect that information to be collected. Facebook tells you that it will!

Also, don't 'friend' people you don't know or trust. If your privacy settings are set to "Friends" then only people you allow access can see shit. If your settings go as a far as 'Friends of Friends' or "Everyone" then you're releasing information on your profile page to the cyber universe.

I have a minimum of information on my
Facebook page. My birthday (which is October 16 by the way so put that in your diaries), my education, my city and country, why I'm on there, a few photos that I really don't care if friends can see them and that's about it.

Think about it. Your personal information is widely available through your tax returns, medical records, criminal records etc. OK it's not easy to get this information but it is possible. I can find out who owns the block next to mine by doing a simple title search. I can Google just about anyone and get some information so it's not rocket science.

I think you really need to think 'why' you're on
Facebook and if it's to protect your privacy, probably not a great idea. Facebook takes whatever personal information you 'choose' to provide so don't provide what you don't want others to know. If it's to network, find old friends, see how the other half lives or just keep in touch, it's a terrific way to do so.

Don't want people to know . . .don't tell them! You might know a lot about me from
Facebook, the blog or other electronic media such as LinkedIn but you still only know what I choose to tell you. . .and that aint my shoe size!

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Friday 'Duh' Fuckwit

Well we all know that the latest 'thang' is to attract crowds to the cinema with surround sound, Imax or 3D tech . . did you know it can cause rather unusual physiological problems?

The technology blame game has reached to unsurpassable heights as the current saga of events state that technology is being cursed for all sorts of mishaps. The recent being the case of a woman who 'became' pregnant after watching a 3d porn video.

Eric Jhonson who came from a year long tour from Iraq, was amazed to see his wife bore a child. ON the other hand his wife Jennifer, states that the causative reason for the same was watching a porn movie in 3D with friends following

A month later . . .she realised that she was pregnant.

The baby is of a mixed race, whereas both Erick and Jennifer are white. And the baby has a close resemblance with the black porn star in the movie, as stated according to Jennifer.

All I have to say in the words of the great Barnham .. there is a sucker born every minute .. Have a great weekend!

mmm hmmm . . .looks like the fuckwit was me. Then I never promised to publish the 'truth'

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Mystery Ring

I had two spinster aunts. They lived together most of their lives in their peaceful and single existence, a little like two lesbians without the sex. One definitely the masculine, Daphne, the other more feminine, Marian.

One year, after a visit home, my mum and dad were packing and Marian in her generosity presented my Dad with a tiny ring. A little gold, delicate ring with a cluster of tiny diamond chips. It wasn't worth much but to her had some sentimental value as it belonged to their mother. The ring was given as a gift for me upon their return.

As was often the case, mum and dad came back from their trip, homesickness for my mother sated and Dad happy to be back in the warmth of Australia. They'd bring little treats such as duty free perfume and Walnut Whips from Marks and Spencers, Lemon Bon Bons and trinkets from their travels.

This particular trip, my father was especially proud because he had a special gift for me, given as an heirloom. A tiny diamond ring. Inconsequential to me as I'm not really a 'jewellery' person but a nice thought to have a family heirloom to keep and perhaps pass on to my daughter at the appropriate time so I was very pleased indeed.

Well, they turned their bags inside out and upside down and I guess a combination of jet lag and fury, my father couldn't work out what the hell had happened to the ring. He remembered Marion giving it to him as they were packing. He remembered the box it was in and he remembered carefully wrapping it in a sock and securing it into one of his shoes for safe keeping.

First the customs and baggage handlers were blamed but the locks on his valise were intact. No customs 'search' notification on the bag and he hadn't been asked to open bags upon arrival in Australia and nothing looked as if it had been disturbed when he first opened his suitcase, so that was ruled out.

Then he began to doubt himself. Perhaps he hadn't packed it. Perhaps it was left on the bed where they'd lain their cases but my mum assured him that she saw him wrap the box and put it into his shoe. So absent-mindedness was also ruled out.

"Daphne!" he said quite emphatically, "That bitch has taken it out". I've never heard my father speak that way about any woman, let alone his sister but the bitterness went back further than I realised. She had long been jealous of his relationship with my mother it seemed. Even to the point of splashing his coat with perfume once in the hope that my mother would think him unfaithful, soon after they'd first met. She didn't attend their wedding and for over 30 years I was oblivious to any tension between them but clearly it had been there.

He was on the 'phone in a heartbeat and talking to both sisters about the ring. Where was it? What's the point of giving something only to take it back? Had Daphne repossessed it and opened his luggage? Accusations flew far and wide and neither side was giving quarter. They swore they hadn't touched it, he swore someone had removed it from its secure and snug home in his valise.

Years went by, I mean many years. Daphne died. Marion came to Australia and lived here for a few years until she too passed and many a gin and whisky driven argument between her and my Dad raised the sore point of the ring. She denied any knowledge of its removal and even said that she'd quizzed Daphne about it many times. Daphne had always stood her ground. Marian did admit that Daphne hadn't been happy about it being 'given away' even to her niece! Families are funny things.

It never surfaced, no reason for its disappearance. I hoped it might be discovered when we finally cleared out my Dad's stuff after he too died, perhaps buried deep in one of his old shoes, wrapped neatly in one of his old socks. But no. There was no sign of the little gold diamond cluster. It's just one of those mysteries that we'll never unravel. Or one with an answer that was clearly taken to the grave!

Unravel more mysterious moments with Theme Thursday!

Monday, May 10, 2010

Haha . .I didz a recipeez

I don’t normally do recipes, in fact I think this is a first, because everything I cook is very quick and simple even if it does sometimes turn out pretty spectacular. All in the presentation you know. Some of you asked for the recipe for Sour Cream Potato Bake so here it is.
It's very, very easy and one that my family love. It’s my most requested ‘can you bring’ item and I’ve only ever stuffed it up once because we were too busy having a good time, ate late and it was a little overcooked and went rather oily.

10 Medium sized new potatoes or 2kgs of tiny chats/new potatoes. Leave the skin on cos that’s where the goodness hides. Boil for about 15-20 minutes until almost cooked but not quite (We in the culinary world call this 'par boiling'). You know they're right when you poke them with something sharp and they feel firm but not crunchy. (That's technical cordon bleuspeak)

Drain and let them cool to touch. Otherwise you'll burn your phalanges trying to cut them up into neat cubes.

In a large frying pan, saute (posh word for fry in a teaspoon of butter) 4 medium onions, roughly chopped with about 10 rashers of lean bacon also roughly chopped.

I buy the half loin rashers so there’s less fat. Cook until the onions have just begun to sweat. (That means they look a bit more see-through than when they're raw but not burny or brown). Season with freshly ground black pepper. You don’t need salt because the bacon adds saltiness. Add 2 x 200ml tubs of light sour cream. Or if you're thin, use the real shit. Mix through evenly.

Cut your 'medium' potatoes into quarters and lay into an oven proof dish . . that's one that won't crack at in the oven. Don't be tempted to use the fine China bowl your Auntie Maud gave you, it will probably crack. If you're using chats, leave them in their little baby entirety. .never chop a chat.

Pour the bacony creamy goodness over the top and spread gently with the back of a wooden spoon or spatula.

Sprinkle with a blend of grated parmesan/pecorino cheese (always fresh never that horrible stuff in packets) and a hand full of grated cheddar.

Bake on 180 for about 20 minutes

That’s it!

If you’re a vegetarian, you can replace the bacon with virtually any strong flavoured veg. Asparagus is nice but it makes your wee smell funny, or small broccolini florets . . or mushrooms which taste awesome with sour cream.

You can also alternate onions with leeks, the potato’s best friend!

Go play.

Sunday, May 09, 2010

Mother of a day ...

Mother's Day today . . might be a Hallmark event but for us it meant, drinks under my sister's Pecan tree ....

Morrocan Lamb on the barbie . . .

Green salad with Roasted Pumpkin and avocado . . .

My awesome sour cream potato bake . . .

Why my family can't take a serious photo really pisses me off . . .

My niece has cleavage. . . SOB

Resty poos between courses . . .erm too many legs?

Borrowed hat but it did the job . . .

Dogs apparently like raspberry pavlova . . .

I see you . . do you see me?

Friday, May 07, 2010

Friday Fuckwit - Flying High

Now I don't know 'bout you but when I could see the stars before the encroachment of street lights . . yes we have frickin street lights now . . I could gaze at their wonderfulness and wonder if someone was wondering back at my wonderfulness (delusions of grandeur I know). I'm not closing the book on Aliens or extra terrestrial life, it's a big universe but I wonder why they'd bother with our little planet?

It's a bit like burglars coming into my house, encountering a sleeping dog, perusing my fabulous 1980's electronics and saying "Let's go . . this is so last Tuesday!" So tonight for your fuckwittery pleasure . . . a couple of doozies that deal with life as we'd prefer not to know it.
IDAHO FALLS — An unruly passenger who banged on the cockpit door of a SkyWest flight and claimed he was a space alien was arrested after the plane made an emergency landing Sunday in Idaho Falls.
Delta Connection Flight 4620 was en route from Helena, Mont., to Salt Lake City when a passenger got up and approached the cockpit, "Reports from our crew say he actually started banging on the flight deck door," said one of the hosties.
The man told flight attendants he was a space alien and wanted to fly the plane.
Flight attendants and other passengers were able to get the man back in his seat while the pilots diverted to Idaho Falls. The plane landed just after 6 p.m. Sunday, when authorities took the man into custody.
The plane resumed its flight and arrived in Salt Lake City at 7:15 p.m. There were about 50 passengers on the plane. Yeh but half of them believed that ol' Joe Smith saw god and began the Mormon faith so I'm surprised they were surprised.

Loopiness is international it seems . . .even here we see lights, people are abducted . . . er wait . .no that's just Australian's and their issues with backpackers . .

CARDIFF, Wales, - A British UFO hunter said he is convinced extraterrestrials are behind recent sheep mutilations on the country's farms -- and claims he witnessed such an event.
Phil Hoyle, 53, of Shrewsbury, England -- who said he has been investigating British livestock mutilations for nine years -- said he and members of his Animal Pathology Field Unit team witnessed two UFOs using some sort of light to zap sheep and releasing smaller versions of themselves closer to the animals, The Sun reported Monday.
"For a short while it looked more like a Star Wars battle," he said of the purported incident at a Welsh farm near Radnor Forest.
"The technology involved in these attacks is frightening. These lights and spheres are clearly not ours. They are built by technology and intelligence that's not from here," Hoyle said.
Hoyle said he interviewed area farmers the following day and "all but one had had some type of unusual disappearance of animals or deaths with strange injuries."
Perhaps they just like a nice Lamb Dinner . . .nah I think these are crackpot events but go have a look at some of the NASA footage on YouTube and, well, I could spend hours going 'ooh yes it is . . no it's not . . yes it is . . no it's not . . ."

Have a wonderful weekend. It's Mother's Day here on Sunday so if you celebrate it where you are, be good to your mothers!

Apologies for the sporadic visiting, I will catch up this weekend. Well either that or when Mr Havachat decides to finally move to LA and get a job! Go visit but he's not for everyone!

Not quite aliens and it's been around a while but imagine what they'd think if they saw what we do for fun!

There you go Tori! You're way behind the 8 ball with young Ace!

Thursday, May 06, 2010

Pink . . it's the colour of . . . .

Theme Thursday’s choice of subject this week is “Pink”. It's the colour that least describes, me, I don't like it, it's insipid and girly and sweet and sickly and everything I'm not but . .in an attempt to avoid negativity, remain positive and be part of the programme . . . I'll skip a beat, get a little up tempo, fruffru and feminine and go through a few simple things that tickle me pink:

I am tickled pink when my dog greets me. It’s the wiggliest most pathetic display of spine-bending, tail-wagging and stick-picking that you could ever imagine and it's a daily event.

I am tickled pink when my son does all the yardwork and I mean ALL without being asked. He's awesome.
I am tickled pink when I wake up on a Saturday morning, leap out of bed and realise that it’s not a work day! Yes I do that . . .often!
I'm tickled pink when I buy new bed linen which fits perfectly and has that just-bought smell!
I am tickled pink when my daughter turns up with a bunch of lilies for no particular reason and on no particular occasion.

I am tickled pink when someone says “Amy and I will cook” and they do, and they do it well and I don’t have to worry about anything other than the washing up.

I am tickled pink when I can buy six bottles of half decent Chardy for just $11.00 a case!

I am tickled pink when my boss brings back a little gift from his latest business trip as a 'thank you' for organising it.

I am tickled pink when the end of the fortnight comes and I have $100 left in the bank!
I am tickled pink when I've finished my chores on a Saturday and all is clean and tidy and sweet smelling.
I am tickled pink when friends drop in unexpectedly.
I am tickled pink when I take that perfect photograph, the one I didn't really try to capture but it just got there somehow.
I'm tickled pink when someone notices that I've lost a little weight or I buy a pair of trousers and it turns out I should have bought a size smaller!
I am tickled pink when you chat or Skype. No mean feat when you’re in a different hemisphere and a different timezone but some of you manage it somehow.
Actually I don't much like pink . . but Stephen makes it sound so sexy . . .

Now let your pinkies do the walking and check out the other Theme Thursday entries

Wednesday, May 05, 2010

Hump Day Blues - No Really!!!!

Nothing interesting happening down under. It's getting cold but I'm resisting breaking out the heater. Here's a Twittery type post.

Heading off to work in the mist and realise that you're running on empty with only $5 in your wallet . . ha! Should see the face of the service station guy when you buy $5 worth of petrol. "Any Fly Buys? Wanna buy 3 packets of gum for $5 . . ."

Arrive at work . . .big meeting on today involving morning tea and lunch. All Hell breaks loose. No big deal except they changed the venue from the office to miles away in the middle of nowhere without telling me so first panic station was getting coffee, biscuits and lunch to a room full of rich fat people who think they're going to expire if they don't have a Tim Tam for sustenance and a sandwich before the big 20 km trip home. Super Exec Ass saves the day with some schmoozing.

I took my camera to work today. He likes a day out and hasn't winked at a passer by for a while and there's plenty happening around the river until it pisses down and everyone goes home except two cockatoos looking a bit soggy and not photo worthy.

Then a huge agenda and waste of paper has to be printed, collated and bound because it's a real emergency if it doesn't happen before lunchtime. Even though all 'essential' parties are out of the office (eating Tim Tams and Sandwiches in the middle of nowhere). Which isn't a real problem until you reload the printer and spill powdery Cyan cartridge stuffing all over the executive floor and have nothing more than a dustbuster to clean up the mess. What a waste of engineering those things are. Couldn't suck the skin off a rice pudding frankly. Then seeing the funny side, you decide to take a photo of the shemozzle which is your workspace but the battery in your camera is flat as a tack.

Unfazed, you reach for your mobile phone, your new swanky mobile phone with a camera and video only to realise you've left it on your bedside table . . .bugga!

Then the 'drums' in your printer decide they're beating too fast and won't work until the pretty man from Xerox comes and changes them . . eye candy . .oh yeah! Bright spot to the day!

Then you grab the three hole punch to start punching and binding and three wedding fulls of confetti fall all over the floor by which time you've got the giggles so bad, and all on your own every passer by thinks you're on drugs . . .

Then you're called in to do board minutes half way through the meeting . . .and haven't a clue what they're talking about, other than an Aboriginal assessment consultant has designated 35 acres of development site as 'meaningful to the dreaming' and take half of it down in shorthand and hope to fuck you can read it back in the morning.

Then you get home and there's been a blackout and your oven clock's blinking like someone who's attempting to put contacts in for the first time and your surround sound speakers don't work.

Well the day went fast and I got a free lunch thanks to the meeting mix up . . .

Ah . . a day in the life! How do I get this turquoise shit from under my fingernails?
toothpaste for dinner

Sunday, May 02, 2010

The Opposite of Twilight

Shards of sunlight filter through the sweetly fragranced orange jasmine before powering through the flyscreened window, creating a living mural on the wall behind the bed. I love this time of the morning.

One of those in-between times when the dawn chorus has settled and before the sporadic cacophony of cicadas assaults the ear. It's the opposite of twilight, golden and lackadaisical.

He's sleeping there, almost naked swathed in little more than a classic fold of Egyptian cotton. I have a fetish for fine linen and he perfectly decorates my blank canvas, nestled closely between the crumples in relaxed carelessness.

He remains oblivious to my presence as I stare at his perfect form and wonder at thi perfect creation. A right arm folded at the elbow, his open hand invisible behind his head, lost amid a mass of cherubim curls. I love that silken, creamy skin on his smooth inner arm and trace the triangular form without touching, just close enough to imagine the macro of tiny hairs which sensually rise and fall through static emanating from my fingertip. I pause momentarily at his hairline and gently flick an errant curl from his brow. I should cut his hair, it's just a little too long but so soft, so lustrous, so tactile as it frames his sleeping face.

His right arm is lazily posed across a tanned and hairless chest that rises and falls with the whisper of the breeze and the slightly agitated rhythm of REM sleep. I love his hands, small and clean and manicured with so much unrealised potential in their dormant state.

I adore this time with him, this early morning glimmering glow of a time when he sleeps. Despite the hour it's balmy and tiny beads of perspiration form beneath his lower lashes perhaps owing to some nocturnal spice and this the only evidence of pre-slumber heat.

I move a little closer and can feel his warmth. I breathe in the musk of his beautiful skin. I prop myself up, hand on head, fingers opened and covered in dark cascading curls. I call it ‘bedhead’ but he doesn’t care. He never judges my looks. He is comfortable with my body, adores my breasts and my nakedness is barely noticed. He doesn’t object to morning breath or notice my changing shape. I am his life, he depends on me and I love his dependence. Everyone wants to be needed. He loves me truly, innocently and unconditionally. He's openly emotional and I with him. I wipe his tears and heal his wounds, he holds me close and rewards me with heart-wrenching smiles and sweet kisses. For now, we are inextricably entwined physically and emotionally.

I blow a zephyr kiss gently towards his pursed and sleeping lips until he twitches but he doesn’t wake. He'll rise soon enough and this halcyon moment will be lost. He'll fracture the calm with chatter and demands and the gossamer threads of this momentary serenity will break loose.

I draw imaginary along the line of his perfect eyebrows and trace his aquiline nose. I delicately colour his closed lids with invisible hue and draw a tender bow across his Cupid lips. I finger his perfect shell-like ears, squeezing lightly at the lobe . . enough to make him stir. He wakes sleepily and smiles . . . I profer a soft and quiet kiss and tickle his bare chest.

The opposite of twilight is now over, my baby boy is roused, the peace is interrupted. Gone now is that moment of moments, the day begins and he is no longer the subject of a mother's gaze, no longer quiet and cherub-like, asleep between the sheets.

Another hack attempt at the 10th Daughter of Memory. For far more competent and this time round, more 'sensual' efforts, go visit. They're good . .go on . . . they're really good!