My internet didn't work yesterday, or this morning and I realised just how addicted I am to checking my mail and blog comments and browsing my little list of faves. ClareBear too was freaking out because she had to do some online templates and couldn't get her messages from TheCricketer. Shit happens. So, after venturing into the pouring rain to meet the farrier at 9.00 in the morning and being snotted on by two very wet and dishevelled horses whilst they endured a muddy manicure, I ventured into the RTA to register my vehicle. Thirty minutes of people watching and listening to a persistent 'bing' alerting punters to their need to attend an i-mac booth to pay the exhorbitant fees required to be allowed to drive on our shitty roads was not a fun experience. Especially since my shoes were drenched with water, covered in horse shite and my jacket swathed with pony snot and little grey hairs where Chippy chose to rub against my shoulder just to be annoying. Car registered and the Virgin Mastercard (contradiction in terms, it's a whore of a card and has been used many times) absorbing even more credit, I ventured to EB to buy what I thought I required to get the internet up and running - a router. OK, I'm a technopeasant surrounded by smartass geeks but there wasn't one handy this morning so I took my life into my own hands and wafted (literally) into the store.
Me: "I need a router with 8 ports please"
Geeky Indian: "Wireless?"
Me: "How the fuck should I know . . .the one I have now has a plug" *real response - I don't know*
Geeky Indian: "We have one with a single ADSL and four data ports"
*ring ClareBear to get her to count ports*
Me:"Ok I'll try that one"
Geeky Indian: "It has an inbuilt modem, wireless capability, ADSL and 4 data ports, you'll be happy with that one madam."
Me: "I'm cold, wet (again not in a good way) smell like a horse and have snot on my jacket, just gimme the dam thing . . ." *real response was 'thank you'*
So I drive home once again, squish into the kitchen, gingerly take said router out of the box and it looks absolutely nothing like the little thingamy at the back of my computer which turns out to be a 10/100Mbps switch. BabyBro has the router on his server and we're networked in. What I need is just a DLink switch with 8 ports.
Fark. Now I have to go back to the store and since I can't be bothered getting out of the now damp rather than sodden horsey gear, I just change my boogey smeared jacket into something a little smarter and go back to the shop.
Nope, they don't have a switch. So I wait half an hour for a refund. It wasn't wasted, I browsed the heaters while I was there and got a demo model for $10 off so my bargain hunger was satiated. Off to another shop. Yep, they had the gear. 8 ports, guarantee, warranty, all the bits and jiggers to go with it. So, back in the car again and assemble the DLink. Nup . . still no joy.
It turns out that BabyBro had a new firewall installed on Friday morning and since all the networked computers were switched on during the installation, nobody had rebooted so that the server recognised the LAN. All it took was everyone to reboot and life as we know it resumed. So . . I'm $79 poorer. Have 2 data switches (a spare is always handy I guess) but importantly, I'm back on the net before anyone missed me. Now there's some arrogance for you . . .
See, I now know the difference between an ADSL port, a data port, a router with inbuilt modem and wireless capability and a simple data switch. I have also learned that the blue cables are the computers and the grey cable is the ADSL but I'm not sure what the yellow one is yet.
I learned a lot. I am now only 98% technopeasant and 2% Super Geek. Yay!
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
Shop till you drop . . .I don't think so.
I love Friday’s. It’s raining and cold and likely to be the same all weekend so a surprise lunch with Thommo was a welcome invitation. We chit chat about kids, work, life the universe and everything. She’s worried that I don’t have a life. True, but only through lack of funds. So after some salient advice and deep concern – and two glasses of Goundry Chardonnay and a lovely prawn risotto, we went our separate ways. I love that girl.
The weather being so inclement, I walked through the mall. About 2kms of shops with doof doof music bouncing off the walls and all with names like Cruise, Tarocash, YD, Crush, Jeffro’s and Dotti . . .obviously marketing to the younger element. Yes there was a plethora of three-wheel motorised shopping carts being driven by ultimately focussed geriatrics . . . not focussed on impending collisions with shoppers and yummy mummies with 15 babies in the one elongated stroller but focussed on getting from point A to point B as quickly as possible. It’s amazing that normal pedestrians actually manage to negotiate the centre at all without being clipped by either a stroller or a gerry zooming out of control. Thank God they have little orange flags on the back.
And I don’t get food courts! Why when there’s a perfectly good piazza with inexpensive lunch deals, do people cluster in the cattle ring devouring their El Turko kebabs, sushi rolls, Red Rooster, KFC and MacDonalds? Or even worse the bain marie’s full of festering Chinese somethingorother and curries that smell the same when they go in as when they come out. It’s the most horrible eating environment with cleaners fussing around your every move, people bumping your chair which is cemented to the floor so it just swings in an anti clockwise direction when nudged and a TV screen in the middle of your table blasting the lunchtime news or a continuous string of commercials encouraging you to shop, eat, consume.
For some reason, the sales are on again. It seems to be perpetual these days. Summer Sales, End of Season sales, just because we can’t shift our stock sales. In fact if you pay full price for anything these days, you either really want it or your’re a sucker. Stop buying people. Consumer confidence leads to high inflation which in turn leads to an increase in interest rates and then no body will buy my bloody block!
Now I’m not a girly girl – gimme a pair of jeans and a warm jumper and I’m a happy camper - but I am drawn to a bargain (I am female after all) and of course David Jones have their half yearly clearance on and tables are strewn with shoes, discount perfume, clothing (much of which is trawled out from the previous sale) but what can a girl do? I have to walk through this den of iniquity, this tempting cave in order to see the light (or the drizzle in this case) and venture back to work.
Yeh. I did have a little browse. OK I didn’t buy anything due mainly to my current bout of poverty but I did fancy a pair of boots on the way through and - I may go back, a rather nice plush pink sweater that had been knocked down to $75 from $150 and of course Madam Rochas and Bulgari Blu is on sale for $69. Ooh ooh ooh . . .sooooo tempting. But like a brave soldier, I forged my way through the marauding women trying to find the ‘other’ shoe and the harassing shop assistants insisting that I sniff their little bits of fragrant paper . . . I sloshed just about every perfume I passed on a different pulse point while they weren’t looking. Fingered an uber trendy handbag that I almost bought since mine’s so old fashioned but remained stoic in my resolve to save money.
Now I’m back in the office, ready for the afternoon’s onslaught, so wishing I’d bought that jumper, and smelling like a tart’s boudoir. . It's a good job I hate shopping.
The weather being so inclement, I walked through the mall. About 2kms of shops with doof doof music bouncing off the walls and all with names like Cruise, Tarocash, YD, Crush, Jeffro’s and Dotti . . .obviously marketing to the younger element. Yes there was a plethora of three-wheel motorised shopping carts being driven by ultimately focussed geriatrics . . . not focussed on impending collisions with shoppers and yummy mummies with 15 babies in the one elongated stroller but focussed on getting from point A to point B as quickly as possible. It’s amazing that normal pedestrians actually manage to negotiate the centre at all without being clipped by either a stroller or a gerry zooming out of control. Thank God they have little orange flags on the back.
And I don’t get food courts! Why when there’s a perfectly good piazza with inexpensive lunch deals, do people cluster in the cattle ring devouring their El Turko kebabs, sushi rolls, Red Rooster, KFC and MacDonalds? Or even worse the bain marie’s full of festering Chinese somethingorother and curries that smell the same when they go in as when they come out. It’s the most horrible eating environment with cleaners fussing around your every move, people bumping your chair which is cemented to the floor so it just swings in an anti clockwise direction when nudged and a TV screen in the middle of your table blasting the lunchtime news or a continuous string of commercials encouraging you to shop, eat, consume.
For some reason, the sales are on again. It seems to be perpetual these days. Summer Sales, End of Season sales, just because we can’t shift our stock sales. In fact if you pay full price for anything these days, you either really want it or your’re a sucker. Stop buying people. Consumer confidence leads to high inflation which in turn leads to an increase in interest rates and then no body will buy my bloody block!
Now I’m not a girly girl – gimme a pair of jeans and a warm jumper and I’m a happy camper - but I am drawn to a bargain (I am female after all) and of course David Jones have their half yearly clearance on and tables are strewn with shoes, discount perfume, clothing (much of which is trawled out from the previous sale) but what can a girl do? I have to walk through this den of iniquity, this tempting cave in order to see the light (or the drizzle in this case) and venture back to work.
Yeh. I did have a little browse. OK I didn’t buy anything due mainly to my current bout of poverty but I did fancy a pair of boots on the way through and - I may go back, a rather nice plush pink sweater that had been knocked down to $75 from $150 and of course Madam Rochas and Bulgari Blu is on sale for $69. Ooh ooh ooh . . .sooooo tempting. But like a brave soldier, I forged my way through the marauding women trying to find the ‘other’ shoe and the harassing shop assistants insisting that I sniff their little bits of fragrant paper . . . I sloshed just about every perfume I passed on a different pulse point while they weren’t looking. Fingered an uber trendy handbag that I almost bought since mine’s so old fashioned but remained stoic in my resolve to save money.
Now I’m back in the office, ready for the afternoon’s onslaught, so wishing I’d bought that jumper, and smelling like a tart’s boudoir. . It's a good job I hate shopping.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
If You Can't Say Anything Nice . . . Shut Up!
In my five years as a Practice Manager (that’s someone who manages a Practice, not someone who is still practicing to be a Manager), I have noticed a distinct lack of respect, eye contact and genuine praise from the higher-ups and an increase in rudeness, ignorance and criticism for the lower-downs. Something to which I said I would never succumb. In fact, no matter how cranky I am at someone I try to emphasise their good points before slapping them from here to Tuesday! If you can be critical of someone, you need to counterbalance that in the case of almost everyone, except George Bush and John Howard, with a little praise and encouragement.
Effective praise is a skill set that must be learned like any other. Leaders often find themselves spending an inordinate amount of time identifying what is wrong, identifying mistakes, and concentrating on errors. Effective leaders look for opportunities to find people doing things right and offer them the encouragement and the support they need to keep succeeding.
There are five things a leader can do to insure their statements of praise are effective.
Make sure the praise is authentic. Authentic does not mean it must be a tremendous accomplishment. It does mean it has to be honest. You don’t need to wait until your friend has finished his novel to administer praise. In fact it may be more effective to acknowledge when he has reached the 200 page goal. For example “Well done sir for attempting a fantasy novel even if your hero has a disciple’s name . . .which means small . . ha ha Paul the Small . .. .oops getting off topic.
Make sure the praise is specific. Acknowledging the excellent way in which something challenging was handled is an excellent example. Identify areas of strength and acknowledge them. “Your squab stew is absolutely delicious . . did you shoot it yourself?”
Make sure the praise is immediate. Providing positive feed back as soon as things happen is a powerful tool to encourage them to happen again. “Thanks for making your bed and hanging your wet towel up DrummerBoy” . . . DOH! That’s right, he’s in Canberra.
Make sure the praise is untainted. Tainted praise has an ulterior motive. Tainted praise often has the addendum “but” attached. Ooops previous praise of young author now null and void . . .tainted . . .sorry”
Make sure the praise is private. Recognising someone in public is often more a performance by the speaker rather than support for the subject of the praise. “I can’t praise you here because everyone of my bloggers and readers will know who I'm talking about and then it won’t be private but I think you’re really really sweet, mature, sensitive, clever, talented, intelligent, honest, heartfelt and funny and you have a truly wonderful voice/accent.”
However you elect to reinforce others, it is important that you do so on a regular basis . . .So praise up and praise regularly. I loves yer werk!
Effective praise is a skill set that must be learned like any other. Leaders often find themselves spending an inordinate amount of time identifying what is wrong, identifying mistakes, and concentrating on errors. Effective leaders look for opportunities to find people doing things right and offer them the encouragement and the support they need to keep succeeding.
There are five things a leader can do to insure their statements of praise are effective.
Make sure the praise is authentic. Authentic does not mean it must be a tremendous accomplishment. It does mean it has to be honest. You don’t need to wait until your friend has finished his novel to administer praise. In fact it may be more effective to acknowledge when he has reached the 200 page goal. For example “Well done sir for attempting a fantasy novel even if your hero has a disciple’s name . . .which means small . . ha ha Paul the Small . .. .oops getting off topic.
Make sure the praise is specific. Acknowledging the excellent way in which something challenging was handled is an excellent example. Identify areas of strength and acknowledge them. “Your squab stew is absolutely delicious . . did you shoot it yourself?”
Make sure the praise is immediate. Providing positive feed back as soon as things happen is a powerful tool to encourage them to happen again. “Thanks for making your bed and hanging your wet towel up DrummerBoy” . . . DOH! That’s right, he’s in Canberra.
Make sure the praise is untainted. Tainted praise has an ulterior motive. Tainted praise often has the addendum “but” attached. Ooops previous praise of young author now null and void . . .tainted . . .sorry”
Make sure the praise is private. Recognising someone in public is often more a performance by the speaker rather than support for the subject of the praise. “I can’t praise you here because everyone of my bloggers and readers will know who I'm talking about and then it won’t be private but I think you’re really really sweet, mature, sensitive, clever, talented, intelligent, honest, heartfelt and funny and you have a truly wonderful voice/accent.”
However you elect to reinforce others, it is important that you do so on a regular basis . . .So praise up and praise regularly. I loves yer werk!
The Internationalists
It’s funny how one post leads to inspiration for another but I watched the morning news this morning and there were some codgers announcing that July 17 would be “International Talk Like A Pirate” day - ‘talk like a parrot’ I heard, and thought that might be fun – Not! But it also got me thinking about the myriad of ‘International Days’ ribbon days: Police Rememberence, Breast Cancer, AIDS, ad nauseum.
Now there seems to be an international day for anything. I supported UNICEF International Children’s Day and Amnesty International’s Day of Peace. The United Nations support no fewer than 50 International days . . including International No Tobacco Day (Boo hoo), International Poetry Day (Yawn) and World Television day whatever that is.
Of course unofficially we have; International Surfing Day (Grouse!), International Webbloggers day (June 16th if you’re interested), International Shut Down Day where you boycott computers (I can see that one taking off), International Day of Solidarity (that's enough about my body shape), International Texting Day (R U OK), International Earth Day (Hug a tree) I could go on but you’ll get bored.
Does anyone actually celebrate these or are they just fed to the media as fillers when we have a day where for some obtuse reason nobody gets blown up in Bagdad and they're 30 seconds short on stories?
I’m up for International Paris Hilton Day (where she is publicly berated at every opportunity), International Chuck a Hissy Fit Day (when you can have a complete mental breakdown without getting fired), International Wear a Silly Hat Day (just because I have a lot of them) and International Go to Work in Your Pyjamas Day (The Dalai Lama can so why can't I) . . .any further suggestions?
Now there seems to be an international day for anything. I supported UNICEF International Children’s Day and Amnesty International’s Day of Peace. The United Nations support no fewer than 50 International days . . including International No Tobacco Day (Boo hoo), International Poetry Day (Yawn) and World Television day whatever that is.
Of course unofficially we have; International Surfing Day (Grouse!), International Webbloggers day (June 16th if you’re interested), International Shut Down Day where you boycott computers (I can see that one taking off), International Day of Solidarity (that's enough about my body shape), International Texting Day (R U OK), International Earth Day (Hug a tree) I could go on but you’ll get bored.
Does anyone actually celebrate these or are they just fed to the media as fillers when we have a day where for some obtuse reason nobody gets blown up in Bagdad and they're 30 seconds short on stories?
I’m up for International Paris Hilton Day (where she is publicly berated at every opportunity), International Chuck a Hissy Fit Day (when you can have a complete mental breakdown without getting fired), International Wear a Silly Hat Day (just because I have a lot of them) and International Go to Work in Your Pyjamas Day (The Dalai Lama can so why can't I) . . .any further suggestions?
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
So Much to Say and So Little Time
So I'll keep it short. June is a busy month in the financial industry so I'm flat out and dog tired.
The Dalai Lama is in town. He giggles a lot, thinks Koala's are lazy and is living quite well for a Tibetan exile. His glasses I think are Donna Karan. Our Prime Monster has given into public pressure and will meet with him despite it risking our national economy due to our trade links with China. C'mon?
I have lost an ancient filling in one of my ancient teeth. It doesn't hurt - yet. But the first appointment I can get is 27th June. I think not baby puppy, time to break in a new dentist and thanks to ClareBear's dentalfest earlier this year, I have no more health cover for fillings. Fark! What do I pay $300 a month for? Buggered if I know. Ah yes! So that I can have massage therapy and a new pair of sports shoes. I really want free fillings!
I just had my car serviced before registration on the 17th. $200, Road tax, $260, Third Party Compulsory insurance $530, Pink Slip $45 and Third Party Property Damage $360. We will be eating pumpkin soup for a month. I am ready to marry for money! Any takers?
The farrier is due on Saturday to give the boys their six weekly manicure. Another $160. I'm in the wrong business. I am ready to sleep with someone for money. Any takers?
I'm really over Witawheat nine grains and vegimite which I've been eating for lunch for the past three weeks because they're free. Not only did they dispatch my age old filling but they're beginning to taste like rusty poo (I stole that from Dodge but don't tell anyone) Work supplies them. The upside is I've lost 3 kilos.
DrummerBoy has his first 'road trip' gig in Canberra on Thursday and I'm not going because I have to work. He's staying with another band that he's never met, in a house he's never been to and all of a sudden he seems about six year's old. I am a pathetic hangontoyourchildrenatallcosts mumsy.
My dog ran away today. The electric collar is not working or it was worth having 200 volts zapped through the scruff of the neck. Why isn't 3 acres of roaming enough. I wish I could speak dog. She came home after dinner time and was summarily NOT FED! Biatch.
I finally bought three light bulbs to replace those that fizzled last week. Not one of the fuckers works. Coles are the megamart from hell and I will deliberately drop something glassy with gloopy filling on their floor next time I visit.
There was a frost this morning. It looked very romantic but all of a sudden, I'm thinking that 35 degrees and a glowing complexion aint that bad. Crippled nipples at 6.00am is not erotic.
We had chicken rissoles for tea. They were working class, comfort food, and absolutely delicious. Thank you to my mother in law for teaching me how to make onion gravy. But I am the queen of mashed potatoes! (This is not indicative of our daily diet - just one of those meals that's homey and yum!)
BabyBro has done something weird to the electrics since installing 3 phase for the concert. My pool cleaner has blown up and if I have the computer and the heater on and attempt to boil the kettle . . .the lights go out even tho there's somebody home. Damned electricians . . .can't they blow up other people's houses. Just leave mine alone!
There. Bed time. Sweet Dreams my bloggybuddies!
The Dalai Lama is in town. He giggles a lot, thinks Koala's are lazy and is living quite well for a Tibetan exile. His glasses I think are Donna Karan. Our Prime Monster has given into public pressure and will meet with him despite it risking our national economy due to our trade links with China. C'mon?
I have lost an ancient filling in one of my ancient teeth. It doesn't hurt - yet. But the first appointment I can get is 27th June. I think not baby puppy, time to break in a new dentist and thanks to ClareBear's dentalfest earlier this year, I have no more health cover for fillings. Fark! What do I pay $300 a month for? Buggered if I know. Ah yes! So that I can have massage therapy and a new pair of sports shoes. I really want free fillings!
I just had my car serviced before registration on the 17th. $200, Road tax, $260, Third Party Compulsory insurance $530, Pink Slip $45 and Third Party Property Damage $360. We will be eating pumpkin soup for a month. I am ready to marry for money! Any takers?
The farrier is due on Saturday to give the boys their six weekly manicure. Another $160. I'm in the wrong business. I am ready to sleep with someone for money. Any takers?
I'm really over Witawheat nine grains and vegimite which I've been eating for lunch for the past three weeks because they're free. Not only did they dispatch my age old filling but they're beginning to taste like rusty poo (I stole that from Dodge but don't tell anyone) Work supplies them. The upside is I've lost 3 kilos.
DrummerBoy has his first 'road trip' gig in Canberra on Thursday and I'm not going because I have to work. He's staying with another band that he's never met, in a house he's never been to and all of a sudden he seems about six year's old. I am a pathetic hangontoyourchildrenatallcosts mumsy.
My dog ran away today. The electric collar is not working or it was worth having 200 volts zapped through the scruff of the neck. Why isn't 3 acres of roaming enough. I wish I could speak dog. She came home after dinner time and was summarily NOT FED! Biatch.
I finally bought three light bulbs to replace those that fizzled last week. Not one of the fuckers works. Coles are the megamart from hell and I will deliberately drop something glassy with gloopy filling on their floor next time I visit.
There was a frost this morning. It looked very romantic but all of a sudden, I'm thinking that 35 degrees and a glowing complexion aint that bad. Crippled nipples at 6.00am is not erotic.
We had chicken rissoles for tea. They were working class, comfort food, and absolutely delicious. Thank you to my mother in law for teaching me how to make onion gravy. But I am the queen of mashed potatoes! (This is not indicative of our daily diet - just one of those meals that's homey and yum!)
BabyBro has done something weird to the electrics since installing 3 phase for the concert. My pool cleaner has blown up and if I have the computer and the heater on and attempt to boil the kettle . . .the lights go out even tho there's somebody home. Damned electricians . . .can't they blow up other people's houses. Just leave mine alone!
There. Bed time. Sweet Dreams my bloggybuddies!
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
He's a Little Bottler
I was late home from work today due to four foreigners entertaining me via their bloody podcast. Drummer Boy spied the chicken fillets in the fridge and made a fantastic Thai Red Curry. Thank you chicken lips, you're a little beauty - I love you a lot!
Is Monogamy a Myth
I just watched a little documentary on divorce. Three billion dollars a year is spent on Australian weddings. You know the full merangue dress, 200 guests, flowers, cars, marquee's or harbourside venues, romance and photographs but six billion is spent on divorce. This program featured, 'normal' people, working class, middle class, swingers, family people and yet the promise hadn't come to fruition for them, men or women.
Then ClareBear emerged from her bedroom saying "I can't understand why men find women so impossible to understand". She has an interest in a fellow who doesn't seem to comprehend that she has an interest. He flirts but that's it. She's made it perfectly clear that she's interested but he just doesn't get it. Is that our problem? We just don't get each other?
I have good relationships with men, boys, in-betweens but the rift between the sexes is difficult to bridge. I often wonder (and I think I am 'wondering' now) whether I would have stayed married had my lovely boy not passed so young. I was 32, he 35 we had a two year old and a four year old, a mortgage that was breaking our back but by and large we were happy. We didn't fight, but our hours were weird. I was a stay-at-home mum, keeping daytime routines with small children, him working evenings and often not coming home until late. How long could we have sustained this ships in the night arrangement? I really don't know and it's a question that for some reason preys on my mind. Not that it matters.
There seem to be three waves of separation. The first 4 years. When the magic of the glamfest fades and issues such as family and becoming seriously financially committed raise their ugly head. One partner is ready, the other isn't. Then there's the famous 7 year itch which in my experience is more like 10 or 12 years when it all just gets too hard and the trials of owning the Australian dream and raising a young family just springs to breaking point like a perished rubber band and one partner decides it's too much. Then there's the 20 year "Who the hell are you?" when all that family and career stuff has been achieved and two people find themselves locked in a relationship without really knowing each other. Now this is a simplistic analysis to say the least but it has borne out in my experience. Then, to contradict this theory (I sometimes hate being a Libran) there are the childhood sweethearts and I know a few. One relationship that has held through the decades and beyond the kids leaving home. I envy those but wonder whether the people involved ever wonder what it would be like to 'be' with someone else.
I'm just throwing this out there. I admire fidelity and no matter why people don't get on and resolve to go their separate ways, I find it really hard to tolerate infidelity. Cheat and you're gone . . . but I guess we have to look beyond the cheating as to the reason for it. I think some people get so safe in their relationships that they think a little fling won't cause too much havoc.
The bottom line: I have a theory that monogomy isn't natural, we're meant to have several partners - not necessarily at the same time of course - but it is what society expects and when you decide to cohabit or marry, fidelity is one of the most important ties that binds. I don't know whether our relationship would have stood the test of time. I know that I haven't really been looking for another but after all these years, I can be more objective. Then the romantic in me hits hard. I'm still looking for that knight in a shining boiler suit for all I care, as long as he's intelligent, funny, reliable and promises that monogomy is not a myth.
Then ClareBear emerged from her bedroom saying "I can't understand why men find women so impossible to understand". She has an interest in a fellow who doesn't seem to comprehend that she has an interest. He flirts but that's it. She's made it perfectly clear that she's interested but he just doesn't get it. Is that our problem? We just don't get each other?
I have good relationships with men, boys, in-betweens but the rift between the sexes is difficult to bridge. I often wonder (and I think I am 'wondering' now) whether I would have stayed married had my lovely boy not passed so young. I was 32, he 35 we had a two year old and a four year old, a mortgage that was breaking our back but by and large we were happy. We didn't fight, but our hours were weird. I was a stay-at-home mum, keeping daytime routines with small children, him working evenings and often not coming home until late. How long could we have sustained this ships in the night arrangement? I really don't know and it's a question that for some reason preys on my mind. Not that it matters.
There seem to be three waves of separation. The first 4 years. When the magic of the glamfest fades and issues such as family and becoming seriously financially committed raise their ugly head. One partner is ready, the other isn't. Then there's the famous 7 year itch which in my experience is more like 10 or 12 years when it all just gets too hard and the trials of owning the Australian dream and raising a young family just springs to breaking point like a perished rubber band and one partner decides it's too much. Then there's the 20 year "Who the hell are you?" when all that family and career stuff has been achieved and two people find themselves locked in a relationship without really knowing each other. Now this is a simplistic analysis to say the least but it has borne out in my experience. Then, to contradict this theory (I sometimes hate being a Libran) there are the childhood sweethearts and I know a few. One relationship that has held through the decades and beyond the kids leaving home. I envy those but wonder whether the people involved ever wonder what it would be like to 'be' with someone else.
I'm just throwing this out there. I admire fidelity and no matter why people don't get on and resolve to go their separate ways, I find it really hard to tolerate infidelity. Cheat and you're gone . . . but I guess we have to look beyond the cheating as to the reason for it. I think some people get so safe in their relationships that they think a little fling won't cause too much havoc.
The bottom line: I have a theory that monogomy isn't natural, we're meant to have several partners - not necessarily at the same time of course - but it is what society expects and when you decide to cohabit or marry, fidelity is one of the most important ties that binds. I don't know whether our relationship would have stood the test of time. I know that I haven't really been looking for another but after all these years, I can be more objective. Then the romantic in me hits hard. I'm still looking for that knight in a shining boiler suit for all I care, as long as he's intelligent, funny, reliable and promises that monogomy is not a myth.
Monday, June 11, 2007
A Bum Steer
I drive. I'm not a bad driver. I'm not a particularly good driver but I know that if I turn on the ignition, point my car in the general direction in which I want to go, it will move forward, provided it's in gear it will go where I want it to and respond in a way I expect it to. I also have the benefit of an all wheel drive vehicle which will turn on a five cent piece and respond immediately to the slightest touch of the steering wheel. It's also 14 years old.
Today, I will be driving another vehicle, similar all wheel drive, much newer than my old jalopy and capable of a large load. It will be a shopping trolley. Laugh if you must but why are these contraptions so difficult to steer? Initially, it will be quite easy. After racing the woman beside me for the first available and wrenching the offending vehicle from a long line of neatly stacked others, I'll trap my fingers in the kiddy seat and get the safety belt caught on one of my buttons. So as I go through the automatic gates at Coles, I'll look like a retard or some poor old sodette who has a severe back injury. Once I've disentangled the child safety belt from my jacket button and righted myself, I'll drop my dilapitated purse into one of the many 'green' shopping bags stuffed in the said child seat section but my keys will miss their mark and become entangled in the mesh at the bottom of the trolly. As I go down on my knees (not in a good way), I'll draw attention to myself in a way that is far from desirable as I bend beneath the trolley to retrieve the trapped car keys.
I'll head first, down the closest aisle which happens to be soft goods such as bread, croissants and other pastries. This means that all the soft and squishy stuff lies in the bottom of the trolley. Who designed this place!
As I meander up and down each consecutive aisle, the trolley will become fuller, heavier and inevitably impossible to steer. It used to be handy having a toddler grabbing the front of the trolley and perched on its frame to reweight the thing so that it did actually travel in a singular direction and in a straight line but by the time I reach the shampoo and tampons, it's loaded with cans and jars, juice and boxes and refuses to go straight. At this point, I'll avoid a small child running out of control with an irate parent chasing it and crash duly into the neatly stacked collection of toothpaste (with a free toothbrush) which I would otherwise have missed and take advantage of the free offer whilst I clumsily try to restack the mountain of gold foil boxes.
Having crashed, of course the carefully placed cans and jars will land heavily on my croissants and wholemeal, squashing them into oblivion at which point, I'll remove them, leave them on the shelf where the dog food resides and vow to revisit the squishy aisle to get a fresh loaf and half a dozen more croissants.
A final run of the frozen section for baby peas (that's all I buy frozen) and I'm done. Again, I wobble towards the checkout, now with one rear wheel refusing to right itself and the trolley has developed a screeching squeak which alerts every shopper and checkout chick to my presence. At the moment I reach the end of the queue and begin unloading the harder items, I remember that I've forgotten to pick up my loaf of Helga's MultiGrain and have to push past irate waiting shoppers, each with their own trolley challenge and race to retrieve tommorrows vegemite toast.
Finally, all items sorted in order of firmness, they're packed into the greeny bags, I fumble for the right credit card which is slammed one more time with a bill I can ill afford and the bags are loaded back into the trolley for dispatch to the car boot.
Now the worst bit. I have to navigate the now completely crippled and squarking wire frame contraption through the revellers enjoying their cappucino and free cake from Michelle's Patisserie scraping their chair legs as I go. Through the automatic doors where I am the only shopper in the world that smiles at the security guy (he sees me coming these days and gives me a sheepish wave) and down the flattened curb towards my car. The trolley now, weighted has gained velocity and is actually pulling me towards the old jalopy before crashing into the pre-scratched bumper.
Almost done now. With the greenie bags unloaded the empty trolley is pushed back up to the trolley bay and thrown into it with such vim and vigour that it bounces straight out and has to be caught on the fly before it scratches the brand new Landcruiser parked badly near it. With a flushed face, underbreath mutterings and a firm hand, it's lodged once more with its compadres ready to drive another shopper insane.
I'm thinking long and hard about home delivery . . .
Today, I will be driving another vehicle, similar all wheel drive, much newer than my old jalopy and capable of a large load. It will be a shopping trolley. Laugh if you must but why are these contraptions so difficult to steer? Initially, it will be quite easy. After racing the woman beside me for the first available and wrenching the offending vehicle from a long line of neatly stacked others, I'll trap my fingers in the kiddy seat and get the safety belt caught on one of my buttons. So as I go through the automatic gates at Coles, I'll look like a retard or some poor old sodette who has a severe back injury. Once I've disentangled the child safety belt from my jacket button and righted myself, I'll drop my dilapitated purse into one of the many 'green' shopping bags stuffed in the said child seat section but my keys will miss their mark and become entangled in the mesh at the bottom of the trolly. As I go down on my knees (not in a good way), I'll draw attention to myself in a way that is far from desirable as I bend beneath the trolley to retrieve the trapped car keys.
I'll head first, down the closest aisle which happens to be soft goods such as bread, croissants and other pastries. This means that all the soft and squishy stuff lies in the bottom of the trolley. Who designed this place!
As I meander up and down each consecutive aisle, the trolley will become fuller, heavier and inevitably impossible to steer. It used to be handy having a toddler grabbing the front of the trolley and perched on its frame to reweight the thing so that it did actually travel in a singular direction and in a straight line but by the time I reach the shampoo and tampons, it's loaded with cans and jars, juice and boxes and refuses to go straight. At this point, I'll avoid a small child running out of control with an irate parent chasing it and crash duly into the neatly stacked collection of toothpaste (with a free toothbrush) which I would otherwise have missed and take advantage of the free offer whilst I clumsily try to restack the mountain of gold foil boxes.
Having crashed, of course the carefully placed cans and jars will land heavily on my croissants and wholemeal, squashing them into oblivion at which point, I'll remove them, leave them on the shelf where the dog food resides and vow to revisit the squishy aisle to get a fresh loaf and half a dozen more croissants.
A final run of the frozen section for baby peas (that's all I buy frozen) and I'm done. Again, I wobble towards the checkout, now with one rear wheel refusing to right itself and the trolley has developed a screeching squeak which alerts every shopper and checkout chick to my presence. At the moment I reach the end of the queue and begin unloading the harder items, I remember that I've forgotten to pick up my loaf of Helga's MultiGrain and have to push past irate waiting shoppers, each with their own trolley challenge and race to retrieve tommorrows vegemite toast.
Finally, all items sorted in order of firmness, they're packed into the greeny bags, I fumble for the right credit card which is slammed one more time with a bill I can ill afford and the bags are loaded back into the trolley for dispatch to the car boot.
Now the worst bit. I have to navigate the now completely crippled and squarking wire frame contraption through the revellers enjoying their cappucino and free cake from Michelle's Patisserie scraping their chair legs as I go. Through the automatic doors where I am the only shopper in the world that smiles at the security guy (he sees me coming these days and gives me a sheepish wave) and down the flattened curb towards my car. The trolley now, weighted has gained velocity and is actually pulling me towards the old jalopy before crashing into the pre-scratched bumper.
Almost done now. With the greenie bags unloaded the empty trolley is pushed back up to the trolley bay and thrown into it with such vim and vigour that it bounces straight out and has to be caught on the fly before it scratches the brand new Landcruiser parked badly near it. With a flushed face, underbreath mutterings and a firm hand, it's lodged once more with its compadres ready to drive another shopper insane.
I'm thinking long and hard about home delivery . . .
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Undiscovered Treasures
My best friend said to me during my slightly depressed state last week . . ."You've got to get out more and stop blogging!" I think she thinks I'm one of these sad and lonely geeks looking for something online that I can't find elsewhere when in fact it couldn't be further from the truth. I'm drawn to the blogisphere . . . I’m drawn to a particular circle of bloggers who have one thing in common – they’re not lonely nerds – they’re writers and for the most part, damn good ones. Some are conversational, some are poets, some are all rounders with a wealth of novels, prose and short stories but they’re all eloquent.
I fancied myself as a bit of a writer but I’m purely in the copywriting and editorial style, catchy bi-lines and short promotional copy, usually for corporate promotion. I write much as I talk and my pragmatic personality doesn’t lend itself to flowery verbosity. I can string a sentence together although like Jonathon Swift, my spelling is atrocious. This combined with the field in which I work has stifled my creativity somewhat. I began this blog as a combination of a lazy way to chronicle things for my children, to vent my frustrations and as a form of literary expression but it took on a life of its own somehow and became a collection of random thoughts and daily grinds.
Having dropped in on the likes of Jefferson Davis, Problem ChildBride and Skint Writer among others, I’ve realised that there is a wide network of critically decent authors and poets that aren’t pretentious or posing, just talented - and for the most part undiscovered. Mind you some of them are pretentious and to my mind ingenuine but that's the way the 'real' world is as well.
So next time someone asks me what I’m reading, I won’t have to feel inadequate that I don’t have a hefty literary volume tied like some albatross around my neck . . I read online. Fantastic poetry, and I’m not a fan of poetry but some of it moves me to tears. Wonderful short stories and soon, I’ll venture further into essays and on-line novels. Blogging is more than a pastime, a cathartic representation of life or a channel for the geeky and lonely, it’s a complete escape from the idiot box and provides a rich tapestry of literary genius if only you take the time to filter through the garbage (and there's plenty of that too!) and find the little treasures buried deep within. It really is worth taking the time to find them and to become inspired, moved and pleased with the incredible wealth of experience, honesty and fine literature, not always printed on the page but right here in the ether.
The Fringelet
"Oh Helen, you dropped a fork" (It was a knife) . . . "How come there's always singing in Disney musicals . . ." O dear . . . see what I mean?
She's easy to talk to, easy to mix with and a delight to have around. I hope they work out over the long term. They've just celebrated six months together and they're like peas and carrots. He's a scruffy 'doesn't give a shit what he looks like' type and she's always perfectly manicured, beautifully dressed. When they go out, he sends her movies of his proposed wardrobe so that I can be instructed on the most appropriate shirt to iron - yes I iron his shirts because it's pathetic watching him do it himself.
She's also got him where she wants him. He dotes on her . . gets her drinks, makes her meals and their bed (more than I could get him to do in 20 years!). Today they've moved two mattresses into the living room and are bunked down like siamese twins canoodling in front of Star Wars with DrummerBoy explaining the complex nuances of the story. I'm sure she'd rather see a chick flick but puts up with his blokey choice of DVD.
Well there's little room for me with the rest of the couch potatoes so I'm off to do my grocery shopping. One of the weekend's lesser joys.
The Force is With Me
It's a shitty long weekend when we usually have a MASSIVE bonfire in the back yard with loads of people trudging mud through the pool room and a tent city full of warm little bodies sheltering from the cold. Then on Sunday morning we rekindle the fire and see if we can blow up baked bean cans . . .three pops and they're off.
But not this weekend. The rain has subsided to a calm drizzle and there's a patch of blue sky which means I can probably hang out my washing. So what did we do instead. We, The Fringlet, DrummerBoy and ClareBear have been totally couch potatoes. I have done my mandatory cleaning because I can't relax until my dunny's clean but apart from that we've been living on pizza and ribs and schlepping in front of the entire Star Wars collection. My sister has it and brought the lot round yesterday so the marathon began. Poor Fringelet has never seen it and when you start at the beginning which was really the end, there's certainly an assumption that you've seen the first three which are actually the last three - are you still with me? I've got to say that after 25 years, the old movies still hold up. They've been digitally remastered and there are some new bits in them but Harrison Ford was a hottie and James Earl Jones has the best voice in history. Eye candy . . yep . . .silly script . . . yep . . .over digitised . . .yep but you all know the lines "I thought I could smell your foul stench when I boarded this ship!" and "Luke I am your father" and "scruffy lookin nerf herder" - "Who's scruffy lookin", "laff it up fuzzball!" ha ha . . .Tomorrow (Monday), I'll attend to the fallen trees and bark strewn all over the garden but today . . The force is with me!
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Hey, It's raining and I'm bored!
| You Are 50% Normal |
 While some of your behavior is quite normal... Other things you do are downright strange You've got a little of your freak going on But you mostly keep your weirdness to yourself |
Friday, June 08, 2007
It's Raining
It's Friday night and all is well with the world of Bainos. It's pouring and has been for three days, better still, it's falling in the catchment areas and eastern rural districts during the wheat planting season, that's a good thing. The surfers are loving it because the swell is huge, big enough to ground a coal tanker off Newcastle which is causing havoc on the north coast. The boys (I'm not sure how many of them, I'll do a body count in the morning) are anhiliating islamic fundamentalist on some XBox game. I've taught DrummerBoy all I can by 20 years of age but went in disapprovingly in relation to this game so I think they've switched to Need for Speed. ClareBear has gone off to the RSL to play Agony Aunt when I think she would have rather been embracing a movie and a Doona. I've just eaten Satay Prawns and Sang Choy Bow and feeling replete and ready for bed and ThePrincess is lamenting the rain, not that she's seen much of it, and is wedged between the couch and side table just in case there's thunder and lightening involved. I'm almost hopeful that a large branch will fall on my car because the insurance pays for 'resultant' damage so it will be worth paying to get the hefty bough removed and the possibility of a new vehicle is exciting. I have dirty washing in the basket and the machine that's just going to fester there because there's no way it will get dry for the next couple of days. The 'boys' are wet and miserable standing under the trees with their tails to the wind. They're so spoiled . . cows don't have rugs so why should they? The pool is overflowing and substantial eddies of water are flooding the verandah. . . This might sound strange to some of you but the blissful sound of rain is such a blessing. It's good, hard, downpouring rain and even though the topsoil probably won't survive, the rest of the garden will. Tomorrow, I will sleep in, snuggled tight in a blanket of feathers . . even if I wake early as I always do . . just to spite the world because it's cold and windy and no real reason to get up . . there's rain teeming down outside and a wild wind blowing. It's wonderful.
I Hate Paris
I’m so sick of Paris . .
not that Paris . .
This Paris . . .
This Paris . . .
For over a week now, our news headlines have been based upon the demise of Ms Hilton’s fortune for being the fuckiest bimbo in the world and drink driving again . . to her 40 day confinement, mystery illness and dramatic reduction of her sentence to 25 days incarceration. Then there was her clandestine entry to prison just before Midnight on her first day and then her equally surprising departure just after midnight on the third day . . . by doing this, she can count five days instead of three, cunning little bunny.
So after 3 days of these shenanigins, we now have to put up with the insufferable media parked outside her mansion while she seals her book deal “My Three Days of Porridge”, or “Slut in the Slammer” and ponces around the proverbial mansion on the 7:30 Report with what I suspect is a jewel encrusted ankle thingamejigg to make sure that she doesn’t leave the heated pool and landscaped, luxury premises. There's no escaping, turn off the TV and she's featured on the foikn radio.
Was that a marquee I saw in her garden?. . .Yay! Nicole and the whole anorexic bunch can come and play in her backyard and barf up their Margarita's. We’ll have a house arrest party . . soooooooper!
Kill the biatch! Dammit . . she’s even got me writing about her, the friggin’ amoeba.
*my apologies to all single celled organisms*
So after 3 days of these shenanigins, we now have to put up with the insufferable media parked outside her mansion while she seals her book deal “My Three Days of Porridge”, or “Slut in the Slammer” and ponces around the proverbial mansion on the 7:30 Report with what I suspect is a jewel encrusted ankle thingamejigg to make sure that she doesn’t leave the heated pool and landscaped, luxury premises. There's no escaping, turn off the TV and she's featured on the foikn radio.
Was that a marquee I saw in her garden?. . .Yay! Nicole and the whole anorexic bunch can come and play in her backyard and barf up their Margarita's. We’ll have a house arrest party . . soooooooper!
Kill the biatch! Dammit . . she’s even got me writing about her, the friggin’ amoeba.
*my apologies to all single celled organisms*
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Youth Isn't Wasted on the Young
I have just been chastised by my very young but very wise daughter. While I'm lamenting the fact that I have no money, can't afford to go out, my sister doesn't understand me, my brother is selfish . . . she has laid it on the line. "You just have to get up, tell people how you feel and make the effort to go out and meet people. It might not be the first person you meet but they might know someone who knows someone and then you have a new circle of friends". She's right.
I am a homebody. I have a small but tight circle of friends - three or four here in Australia and a few overseas whom I've only ever visited once or twice. I should go to the pub on Friday's, they're a good crowd and only two of them know that I'm wearing the same gear I wear to work. They meet, have a couple of drinks then go somewhere for dinner, usually cheap ish. Vietnamese, Chinese or Italian . . . I should rekindle relationships with my far flung but valued friends. And most of all, I should tell my friends and family how I really fee and what my circumstances really are, in no uncertain terms. Hard to do without sounding like a pathetic whinger but they need to know.
I am expert in providing advice to others. My life experience has equipped me well to advise the young and inexperienced but when it comes to advice for myself - hopeless.
Apparently, I'm like a high maintenance girlfriend who intimates and expects her boyfriend to totally understand the hints instead of laying it on the line. I expect that when I tell my sister that I can't afford to go out to dinner, she will believe me . . . but she doesn't because everyone says "I can't afford it". I expect when she looks in my treat-free pantry that she'll understand we live on staples not Tim Tams . . . but she doesn't. I expect that when I ask the farrier not to bank the cheque until next week that she'll get an inkling that I'm on subsistance until payday but she doesn't. When I say I haven't bought a new pair of shoes in 2 years, she simply doesn't believe it. Why am I so financially challenged. Half my income goes on insurance, Income Protection, Trauma, Life, Health . . mainly to service my debts in the event I can't work and because in the past I've had two children to support and need to ensure they're financially secure if something happens to me but now that's not so much the case. The balance of my pretty good salary by the way, goes on normal deductions, rates, electricity, phone, food, car and of course a bottle of champagne each night (Not real champagne but cheap Australian sparkling at about $6.00 a bottle - even the local liquor store gives me a discount because I'm regular.) And of course there's the fags. $12 a packet. I simply can't afford it but addition is a hard thing to break. I probably spend about $500 a month on cancer sticks alone. That's about 25 Thai dinners!.
I am in the fortunate/unfortunate position of having quite wealthy friends. It's nothing for them to spend a week at the National Golf Course or swan up to the Sunshine Coast for someone's wedding or 21st or a trip to Melbourne to take advantage of the fabulous shops or go skiing in Japan or holidaying in Italy, visit the French Open or even eat out two or three times a week and I've felt the necessity to compete. Since I can't, I choose to stay home and save myself the embarrassment of scrounging coinage.
Clare is pretty financially independent, Adam is still at Uni but has potential. (I'm still paying his car insurance because he doesn't seem to think that a week's community service is a problem if he can't pay for repairs when he runs into a Mercedes). So it really is time to start looking after me. It's tough, I'm not a push over, in fact I'm pretty assertive but when it comes to my own needs, I'm a pussycat. Thanks ClareBear . . . you're the only one who can tell me off with love in your voice, I appreciate it. I am prepared to change things. Slackers of the world unit - Tomorrow
I am a homebody. I have a small but tight circle of friends - three or four here in Australia and a few overseas whom I've only ever visited once or twice. I should go to the pub on Friday's, they're a good crowd and only two of them know that I'm wearing the same gear I wear to work. They meet, have a couple of drinks then go somewhere for dinner, usually cheap ish. Vietnamese, Chinese or Italian . . . I should rekindle relationships with my far flung but valued friends. And most of all, I should tell my friends and family how I really fee and what my circumstances really are, in no uncertain terms. Hard to do without sounding like a pathetic whinger but they need to know.
I am expert in providing advice to others. My life experience has equipped me well to advise the young and inexperienced but when it comes to advice for myself - hopeless.
Apparently, I'm like a high maintenance girlfriend who intimates and expects her boyfriend to totally understand the hints instead of laying it on the line. I expect that when I tell my sister that I can't afford to go out to dinner, she will believe me . . . but she doesn't because everyone says "I can't afford it". I expect when she looks in my treat-free pantry that she'll understand we live on staples not Tim Tams . . . but she doesn't. I expect that when I ask the farrier not to bank the cheque until next week that she'll get an inkling that I'm on subsistance until payday but she doesn't. When I say I haven't bought a new pair of shoes in 2 years, she simply doesn't believe it. Why am I so financially challenged. Half my income goes on insurance, Income Protection, Trauma, Life, Health . . mainly to service my debts in the event I can't work and because in the past I've had two children to support and need to ensure they're financially secure if something happens to me but now that's not so much the case. The balance of my pretty good salary by the way, goes on normal deductions, rates, electricity, phone, food, car and of course a bottle of champagne each night (Not real champagne but cheap Australian sparkling at about $6.00 a bottle - even the local liquor store gives me a discount because I'm regular.) And of course there's the fags. $12 a packet. I simply can't afford it but addition is a hard thing to break. I probably spend about $500 a month on cancer sticks alone. That's about 25 Thai dinners!.
I am in the fortunate/unfortunate position of having quite wealthy friends. It's nothing for them to spend a week at the National Golf Course or swan up to the Sunshine Coast for someone's wedding or 21st or a trip to Melbourne to take advantage of the fabulous shops or go skiing in Japan or holidaying in Italy, visit the French Open or even eat out two or three times a week and I've felt the necessity to compete. Since I can't, I choose to stay home and save myself the embarrassment of scrounging coinage.
Clare is pretty financially independent, Adam is still at Uni but has potential. (I'm still paying his car insurance because he doesn't seem to think that a week's community service is a problem if he can't pay for repairs when he runs into a Mercedes). So it really is time to start looking after me. It's tough, I'm not a push over, in fact I'm pretty assertive but when it comes to my own needs, I'm a pussycat. Thanks ClareBear . . . you're the only one who can tell me off with love in your voice, I appreciate it. I am prepared to change things. Slackers of the world unit - Tomorrow
The Higher You Go The Less You Know
My new and rather shakey fall from Management Material to an Exec. Ass has not been without it's dramas. Besides my unpredictable pre-menopausal anxieties and loss of memory, I'm learning a whole new craft. It's something I've done before but a lot has changed in 5 years. Legislation and the rules are different, websites have replaced customer service lines as sources of information and ferreting through sites to find the appropriate information takes forever, on- line trading is now done instead of sending client letters to fund managers and that means the responsibility has increased 10 fold for the lower-downs, the administrative staff (most of whom by the way earn a pittance, I was lucky to retain my salary due to my Marketing expertise). I've made a mistake this month. Only one and to a really nice but rather neurotic client but Murphy's Law being what it is, what can go wrong, has gone wrong.
All he wanted to do was transfer some shares from his personal name into his Self Managed Super Fund name. Simple, fill in a form, send to the share registry - done like a dogs dinner. The catch being, this client is travelling overseas next week and wanted it all 'bedded' down before he left. He's fastidious you see. Wants all his ducks in a row. First mistake, I forgot about the urgency and the transfers sat on my desk for 5 days, I blame my current hormonal state for that and I was wrong to let them languish there - responsibility accepted and apologised for. Then, I sent them to the appropriate share registry. . . but low . . .he has a broker so the Share Registry refused to do the transfer. Apparently, if you have a HIN, then you must deal through your broker - if you have a SRN then you can deal directly with the share registry. BINGO - revelation to me! Then the share registry refused point blank to tell me anything - even if they'd received the forms because I wasn't the 'authorised person'. It wasn't until I promised to slit my wrists and send a personal suicide note to them explaining why I did it and that they would be totally responsible for the blood on the walls. Then, they said they'd have to send the forms back to the client. Ahhhhhhggggghhh Noooooooo. Just when I thought I could salvage the situation and keep it seamless by sending them on to his broker and he'd know nothing about this indescretion - my false security bubble was burst. Bugga. So, now I've had to send new forms to a soon-to-depart-nice-guy-gone-bad who thinks I'm a complete imbecile (he's not alone there!)
After that rant, the problem is, I have NEVER done this before. I sought the guidance of another Exec Ass and TheBoss, who both fed me a bum steer. The other ExecAss gave me misinformation and TheBoss well he simply didn't know what to do . . . it seems the higher you go, the less you need to know. Which is fair 'nuff, he does other stuff but leaves me between a rock and a hard place. After being a higher up . . . I'm learning all about the stress and strain of being a lower-down. . . . Ah . . . I shall remain philosophical. I know I can do it, I'm just on a learning curve and not getting a load of assistance from my peers I might add! It might not be spiking rubbish for the council but there's a lot of shit flying around our office at the moment and a lot of it's aimed at me!
*wipes chip off shoulder*
All he wanted to do was transfer some shares from his personal name into his Self Managed Super Fund name. Simple, fill in a form, send to the share registry - done like a dogs dinner. The catch being, this client is travelling overseas next week and wanted it all 'bedded' down before he left. He's fastidious you see. Wants all his ducks in a row. First mistake, I forgot about the urgency and the transfers sat on my desk for 5 days, I blame my current hormonal state for that and I was wrong to let them languish there - responsibility accepted and apologised for. Then, I sent them to the appropriate share registry. . . but low . . .he has a broker so the Share Registry refused to do the transfer. Apparently, if you have a HIN, then you must deal through your broker - if you have a SRN then you can deal directly with the share registry. BINGO - revelation to me! Then the share registry refused point blank to tell me anything - even if they'd received the forms because I wasn't the 'authorised person'. It wasn't until I promised to slit my wrists and send a personal suicide note to them explaining why I did it and that they would be totally responsible for the blood on the walls. Then, they said they'd have to send the forms back to the client. Ahhhhhhggggghhh Noooooooo. Just when I thought I could salvage the situation and keep it seamless by sending them on to his broker and he'd know nothing about this indescretion - my false security bubble was burst. Bugga. So, now I've had to send new forms to a soon-to-depart-nice-guy-gone-bad who thinks I'm a complete imbecile (he's not alone there!)
After that rant, the problem is, I have NEVER done this before. I sought the guidance of another Exec Ass and TheBoss, who both fed me a bum steer. The other ExecAss gave me misinformation and TheBoss well he simply didn't know what to do . . . it seems the higher you go, the less you need to know. Which is fair 'nuff, he does other stuff but leaves me between a rock and a hard place. After being a higher up . . . I'm learning all about the stress and strain of being a lower-down. . . . Ah . . . I shall remain philosophical. I know I can do it, I'm just on a learning curve and not getting a load of assistance from my peers I might add! It might not be spiking rubbish for the council but there's a lot of shit flying around our office at the moment and a lot of it's aimed at me!
*wipes chip off shoulder*
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Doggy Doos and Don'ts
Grandad has solved his dog poo problem by thrashing it over the neighbour's extension with a 7 iron. I on the other hand have a problem. We live on five acres of parkland, wooded and pretty wild but one of our three hairy legged friends either passes last night's meal on a tiny square of green where we like to sit and chat in the evening or on a sunny day. Alternatively, she will leave her not so little little posit on a paved pathway or more recently, soujourns to the neighbour's much more manicured lawn, arches the back and lays a cable bang slap in the middle.
There are rules here about dogs who foul public places. In the morning, I walk my pooch (well when it's light at 6.00am) but we are forced to walk around the lake with a little plastic bag or pooper scooper as leaving the offending deposit attracts quite a healthy fine. However, indescretions on private property are much less policed. ThePrincess is discreet and poo's on the mulch distant from the house and no real threat to those who wish to languish in the garden keeping them safe from being bombarded by a fetid odour or having the sticky resin adhere to their shoes. Nelson does his 'rounds' in the morning, I've watched him case the perimeter, pop across the road, make his presence known with several brown slugs then return home. But Keira . . . she's the one that will foul just about any public thoroughfare and do it in broad daylight she is not a discriminating bitch by any standards. Our neighbour has already complained about her deliberate banking methods each morning and has requested that she make her deposits elsewhere. I'm sick of picking up the building site refuse that she also retrieves early in the morning and damn frustrated with the piles of poop that litter my little green area.
We've tried the coke bottles filled with water, "Get off My Garden" repellant, yells of "Bah!" whenever she's caught in the act . . . all to no avail. So if you have a workable solution to repel our rebellious doggy from doing her doos on thoroughfares, please let me know.
There are rules here about dogs who foul public places. In the morning, I walk my pooch (well when it's light at 6.00am) but we are forced to walk around the lake with a little plastic bag or pooper scooper as leaving the offending deposit attracts quite a healthy fine. However, indescretions on private property are much less policed. ThePrincess is discreet and poo's on the mulch distant from the house and no real threat to those who wish to languish in the garden keeping them safe from being bombarded by a fetid odour or having the sticky resin adhere to their shoes. Nelson does his 'rounds' in the morning, I've watched him case the perimeter, pop across the road, make his presence known with several brown slugs then return home. But Keira . . . she's the one that will foul just about any public thoroughfare and do it in broad daylight she is not a discriminating bitch by any standards. Our neighbour has already complained about her deliberate banking methods each morning and has requested that she make her deposits elsewhere. I'm sick of picking up the building site refuse that she also retrieves early in the morning and damn frustrated with the piles of poop that litter my little green area.
We've tried the coke bottles filled with water, "Get off My Garden" repellant, yells of "Bah!" whenever she's caught in the act . . . all to no avail. So if you have a workable solution to repel our rebellious doggy from doing her doos on thoroughfares, please let me know.
Crazy Woman
I was going to post about Information Technology and the types of pale and not so interesting boffins who speak in tongues about their BSB’s and Cache’s before postulating wisely, diagnosing and attempting to cure . . then the idea sort of flew off into the interweb before I could grasp it properly and come up with something sensible.
Then I thought I might blog about something incredibly cheerful given some of the low vibes that have been around this week but I couldn’t think of anything other than ice cream and chocolate. Neither of which were at my disposal so it seemed a bit moot.
I came close to talking about jobs, their variety, meaning . . some of the ones I’ve loved, some I’ve hated, those I left and those I was asked to leave but it all got a bit tiresome.
So it’s down to my extremely volatile emotional state at the moment. I’m totally spun out by what’s happening to my body and more ostensibly to my whacky brain. I’m a a balanced, considered, just, ethical, practical and pragmatic person. I’m socially shy but not afraid to speak my mind. I can chair a meeting, multi-task and still think about what’s on for dinner. I am creative, clever, helpful, mentoring, intelligent, very decisive and generally a good all rounder. Oh my . . . not lately. . . .I went home yesterday morning feeling physically sick and panicky because I’d forgotten something quite important and if I made eye contact with anyone in the office I would have simply had a histrioinic outburst. Not me at all.
What is wrong with me? . . . one day I have the concentration of a retarded goldfish . . .I forget things . . lots of things . . . my emotions are in a spin, she who does not cry wells up in a management meeting. My hair is falling out by the handful but doesn’t seem to be getting any thinner, I’m hot at night (not in a good way), I’m anxious and needy, my appetite is pathetic but I still retain weight. Then the next minute, I’m high as a kite, happy as a lark, organised, fastidious, controlled, bursting with energy and ideas and totally on the top of my game.
Apparently it can be only one of three things:
A problem with my thyroid
The onset of clinical depression
Pre-menopause . . .
Laying any bets? Bring it on I say! Next week and Appt. with the quack . . . HRT it seems or a session on the couch with a shrink.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
He's A Bastard But He's My Brother
Thanks to the crimson wave, I have the blues today. I came home midway through the morning feeling a drained, anxious, achey and depressed and I haven't improved. A friend confessed a very sad thing to me this morning about his little family and it's affected me more than I thought it would. A tale of disconnection and self ostracism that caused him great pain. I've been guilty of that myself.
HippyBro used to live next door when my dad was alive. He's two years my junior, always been a loner and one-out-of-the-box. A vegetarian, a counterculturalist and by his own admission a hedonistic narcissist which didn't add up to a very nice person overall. He didn't want to live there but numerous breakups with his marriage forced him home on a regular basis and once my mum was killed, he moved in for over a decade. At first, it was nice to have a male influence, especially for DrummerBoy to whom he was very generous. Went biking with him, took him skiing, lavished boys toys on him, built a baseball net for batting practice and nurtured the little tyke in a suprisingly sweet way. He was co-carer for six weeks when ClareBear and I did our European and North American trip in 1995 and appeared to have a close bond with the child drummer. But as the little tyke became a porky teenager (baby fat now melted away to reveal a 6' broad and beautiful young man) HippyBro lost interest. It coincided with the reconciliation of his marriage.
She lived in the mountains, him here in the burbs. She is strange, of Latvian descent, blond, attractive, petite, vegan and never had children. She's a midwife and specialises in home births and celebrates 'the mother goddess' and all things maternal with a mystical enthusiasm that gives me the creeps. A concept I've never been comfortable with. She gets drunk very quickly and resorts to tears and histrionics but for many years now, she's made him happy 'ish. He spent weekends with her and became shorter, sharper, less interested in DrummerBoy or anyone in his family. Skulky dark looks and bouts of bad temper set us apart. In all the years he lived here, he never made a meal for his father - Dad ate with us at least five nights a week. He came home from work, flopped on his bed and withdrew to his room exiting only to break open a bottle of VB or to sit with us on warm summer nights before having a hissy fit and doing the 'jock shuffle' his way of avoiding conflict.
Finally, New Year's Eve 2000, he lost his bottle because BabyBro stayed over and slept in his unmade bed to avoid Stressany's snoring. Apparently this was a violation of his bastion of privacy and all the years of brewing anger came to a head . . . there were other issues I'm sure but I never found out what they were. I was the target for the venom. Probably because in the past when he bemoned his living arrangement I wasn't afraid to tell him to get a mortgage and piss off rather than skulk around being miserable. This estranged relationship continued to get testy when the 'buyout' took place, him accusing BabyBro and I of delaying in his settlement which wasn't the case, changing Title Deeds and making such complex financial arrangements took about six weeks. And so, we didn't speak much after he took the money and retreated to the mountains for good.
He formally left next door 3 years ago when BabyBro bought most of his share of the property which was our inheritance, and moved in with his wife. We correspond rarely and always to do with issues relating to the house, the sale that's not happening etc. Civil but chill. Lately, in my melancholy about work and money and the feeling that my siblings are becoming more disconnected as this blasted property thing unfolds, and in light of what two of my male blogger friends have said to me, I'm thinking that a reconciliation might not be a bad idea. I don't think we'll ever be the best of friends but the thought of a brother that was once so close, disappearing into the bush isn't one I relish.
HippyBro used to live next door when my dad was alive. He's two years my junior, always been a loner and one-out-of-the-box. A vegetarian, a counterculturalist and by his own admission a hedonistic narcissist which didn't add up to a very nice person overall. He didn't want to live there but numerous breakups with his marriage forced him home on a regular basis and once my mum was killed, he moved in for over a decade. At first, it was nice to have a male influence, especially for DrummerBoy to whom he was very generous. Went biking with him, took him skiing, lavished boys toys on him, built a baseball net for batting practice and nurtured the little tyke in a suprisingly sweet way. He was co-carer for six weeks when ClareBear and I did our European and North American trip in 1995 and appeared to have a close bond with the child drummer. But as the little tyke became a porky teenager (baby fat now melted away to reveal a 6' broad and beautiful young man) HippyBro lost interest. It coincided with the reconciliation of his marriage.
She lived in the mountains, him here in the burbs. She is strange, of Latvian descent, blond, attractive, petite, vegan and never had children. She's a midwife and specialises in home births and celebrates 'the mother goddess' and all things maternal with a mystical enthusiasm that gives me the creeps. A concept I've never been comfortable with. She gets drunk very quickly and resorts to tears and histrionics but for many years now, she's made him happy 'ish. He spent weekends with her and became shorter, sharper, less interested in DrummerBoy or anyone in his family. Skulky dark looks and bouts of bad temper set us apart. In all the years he lived here, he never made a meal for his father - Dad ate with us at least five nights a week. He came home from work, flopped on his bed and withdrew to his room exiting only to break open a bottle of VB or to sit with us on warm summer nights before having a hissy fit and doing the 'jock shuffle' his way of avoiding conflict.
Finally, New Year's Eve 2000, he lost his bottle because BabyBro stayed over and slept in his unmade bed to avoid Stressany's snoring. Apparently this was a violation of his bastion of privacy and all the years of brewing anger came to a head . . . there were other issues I'm sure but I never found out what they were. I was the target for the venom. Probably because in the past when he bemoned his living arrangement I wasn't afraid to tell him to get a mortgage and piss off rather than skulk around being miserable. This estranged relationship continued to get testy when the 'buyout' took place, him accusing BabyBro and I of delaying in his settlement which wasn't the case, changing Title Deeds and making such complex financial arrangements took about six weeks. And so, we didn't speak much after he took the money and retreated to the mountains for good.
He formally left next door 3 years ago when BabyBro bought most of his share of the property which was our inheritance, and moved in with his wife. We correspond rarely and always to do with issues relating to the house, the sale that's not happening etc. Civil but chill. Lately, in my melancholy about work and money and the feeling that my siblings are becoming more disconnected as this blasted property thing unfolds, and in light of what two of my male blogger friends have said to me, I'm thinking that a reconciliation might not be a bad idea. I don't think we'll ever be the best of friends but the thought of a brother that was once so close, disappearing into the bush isn't one I relish.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Boys Look Away!
I'm watching Big Brother nominations - OK it's my eye candy hour gimme a break! But about half a dozen of the beautiful women on this show have had breast augmentations. Their little poached eggs, perfectly rounded and pert are protruding from their bikini tops like small puppies with wet noses. This makes me wonder and I haven't researched the issue, but can they breast feed when the time comes?
Then again (must be the hormones this week) I reminisced about the wonderful experience of breast feeding. I work with a guy who shamelessly has "Breast is Best" emblazoned on his car bumper. His wife fed their first born till he was three. That's a bit over the top in my book - Christ, they have teeth at that age. However, the experience for me was one of the most intimate of my life. Beaten in the intimach stakes only by romantic love-making. To have that little bundle that you've successfully delivered squirm around and finally embrace what boobs were intended for is overwhelming if not a little painful in the first few weeks of life. I remember my obstetrician advising lots of topless sun bathing to toughen the nipples - it sort of worked. And now as my young adults pull the apron strings to bungy levels, I reflect often on how little and dependent and safe they felt whilst being breastfed and how rewarded, needed and special I felt as their only source of sustenance. It's not for eveyone. My sister in law had dreadful trouble and after weeks of perseverence resorted to the bottle and that was the best solution for a hungry and restless baby but I was lucky. Once my other sister-in-law who was also breast feeding at the time actually fed my baby whilst I enjoyed a long lunch by the harbour because the baby wouldn't settle. I fed both babies, one to 10 months which was the perfect time to wean and the other to 5 months because the little bastard would bite with glee when he realised it initiated a wince and a small scream on my behalf. But as newborns, I didn't mind waking up at 2 in the morning and nestling the little buttons. It was MY time. Ray was asleep, it was private, intimate, warming and connecting. But don't believe what you're told. Breast feeding does not preserve the shape and texture of your bosom. Indeed, if you're small, they'll get smaller, if you're normal, they'll get bigger . . . it's not the panacea for preserving your body shape. But it was an exceptional experience and one that I am glad I was able to take part in. I don't think breast is best. Whatever suits at the time to have a happy, sleepy and comforted baby is most important. But I wish these young things would acknowledge that this part of their anatomy has far deeper implications than looking like a swimsuit model. Looks fade but the memory lingers on.
Then again (must be the hormones this week) I reminisced about the wonderful experience of breast feeding. I work with a guy who shamelessly has "Breast is Best" emblazoned on his car bumper. His wife fed their first born till he was three. That's a bit over the top in my book - Christ, they have teeth at that age. However, the experience for me was one of the most intimate of my life. Beaten in the intimach stakes only by romantic love-making. To have that little bundle that you've successfully delivered squirm around and finally embrace what boobs were intended for is overwhelming if not a little painful in the first few weeks of life. I remember my obstetrician advising lots of topless sun bathing to toughen the nipples - it sort of worked. And now as my young adults pull the apron strings to bungy levels, I reflect often on how little and dependent and safe they felt whilst being breastfed and how rewarded, needed and special I felt as their only source of sustenance. It's not for eveyone. My sister in law had dreadful trouble and after weeks of perseverence resorted to the bottle and that was the best solution for a hungry and restless baby but I was lucky. Once my other sister-in-law who was also breast feeding at the time actually fed my baby whilst I enjoyed a long lunch by the harbour because the baby wouldn't settle. I fed both babies, one to 10 months which was the perfect time to wean and the other to 5 months because the little bastard would bite with glee when he realised it initiated a wince and a small scream on my behalf. But as newborns, I didn't mind waking up at 2 in the morning and nestling the little buttons. It was MY time. Ray was asleep, it was private, intimate, warming and connecting. But don't believe what you're told. Breast feeding does not preserve the shape and texture of your bosom. Indeed, if you're small, they'll get smaller, if you're normal, they'll get bigger . . . it's not the panacea for preserving your body shape. But it was an exceptional experience and one that I am glad I was able to take part in. I don't think breast is best. Whatever suits at the time to have a happy, sleepy and comforted baby is most important. But I wish these young things would acknowledge that this part of their anatomy has far deeper implications than looking like a swimsuit model. Looks fade but the memory lingers on.
And if you've had the bravety to read this far, boobs, fun bags, tits, norgs . . . are not just for your pleasure, they're meant to feed babies. So why do men have nipples? Ponder that one.
Lack of Focus Unleashes Evil
I can’t focus today. I’m not sure whether it’s because, it's Monday, I’m getting old and vague, am being challenged by having to live on $200 until 15th June, or perhaps I’m distracted by other more preferable and pleasurable pursuits. I may well have killed a load of brain cells over the weekend . . . Could be because I’m seriously unhappy at work at the moment. Especially since I found out who was instrumental in my Practice Management demise because he can't work with me (Read gets things done and isn’t afraid to say things that are a little unpopular) and the fucker still wants to invite me to an End of Financial Year BBQ at his home. Two-faced son-of-a-herpes-ridden-harpie(no vitriole here). Hell will freeze over before I waste a Sunday with this serial dipshit.
I also seem to be getting worse at remembering things and my attention to detail is almost non-existent. It’s never been good I’m a ‘big picture’ person a communicator, a visualiser, an influencer so working out someones asset allocation or filling in forms is soul destroying but sadly a part of the job. I'd rather clean toilets . . . at least it's physical and everything is clearly improved once the job's done - there's some job satisfaction in that! I like the marketing bit. I could research all day . . . plan all night and implement the next morning but . . . filling in forms . . . updating databases. It unleashes the evil Baino within. This mailaise has cost me heavily. Over the past few days I have:
- Lost my pink Virgin Credit Card
- Tried to deposit a cheque into a non-existent account so now it’s lost and I have to do battle with the bank
- Burned my hand quite badly on a baking tray (althought the roast was worth the pain and surprisingly a liberal amount of ice has reduced the blister to the size of a 50 cent piece)
- Broken one of the speakers in DrummerBoy’s car due to my enthusiasm in helping him unpack some stuff.
- Sent a client a Reply Paid envelope with the wrong address on it
- And I don’t seem to be ‘getting’ anyone’s jokes or funny quips . . .I just sit here with this bemused and confused expression . . .
Worse is yet to come. At about 2:30pm (still having not had lunch) evil Baino came to the surface. After standing in a queue being ignored by bank staff, she began to cough very loudly, make 'hmph' noises and breath rather laboriously. Unfortunately, her 'hmph' noises were drowned out by all the other customer's 'hmph' noises. I think it was me peering angrily over my glasses that actually intimidated one girl into action. I have a grumpy face apparently. It worked, a little slip of a thing came racing out of her pigeon hole asking if she could be of assistance. I explained the faux pas with the cheque, was treated very respectfully (which makes me think I must be looking old or extremely cantankerous or perhaps a combination of both). They couldn't resolve the situation - and seeing as it was my stupid mistake I could harlyd chuck a wobbly - they would call me as soon as they'd spoken to all their client services officers.
So without my cheque, my stomach rumbling loud enough to drown out the piped music in the shopping centre, I headed towards the salad bar. But she wouldn't let me go there . . . nope, evil Baino forced me into Dusk who were having a 50% off sale of beautiful useless things like scented candles and holders and glassware and gorgeous oil burners and stuff - she forced me to pull out the credit card and buy 4 scented candles in little tins even though my budget is uber tight until the 15th. She then, and quite deliberately, diverted every step away from the Freshworld Salad Bar towards that pretty pink Wendy's booth with ice cream, and hot dogs and milk shakes. I tried to resist but her vice like grip had taken hold. I had my eye on the wild rice salad . . . she was checking out the pecan toffee anda ultra choc chip. And I don't even like ice cream . . .the closest I get is that nice soft rim when you bring it home and just before it goes into the freezer. I slid effortlessly across to Wendy's and without even thinking "A hot dog with American mustard and a mocha chilla please . . ." There, it was done, she'd made me do it and once uttered there was no going back and no sign of her. She'd scarpered before the guilt set in.
And now I feel even worse. The hot dog was delicious but too much bread which went in the bin. The chilla is still going - I'm prolonging the taste. The guilt is overwhelming and inside little calories are singing 'na na na-na na sucked in stupid woman." See, all because of a lack of focus, I'm $20 out of pocket for smelly candles and have ingested enough calories to keep a Sudanese family alive for a week. I rest my case . . . lack of focus unleashes evil.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
I Need a Little Man
You know, a little elderly gent who pops in once a week and potters around doing all the things I dont get round to because he likes to keep busy. I've just come in for a resussitative cordial before going out and sweeping the plethora of cobwebs that have begun to enshroud the raked ceiling on my back verandah. I don't want to be doing this on a Sunday afternoon. A little man could do it. After cleaning all my fly screens, I know need someone on the inside to help fix them back into place and both my progeny have gone AWOL - a little man could do that.
Then after blowing all the leaves from the verandah and driveway I've discovered shards of glass and a myriad of bottle tops that had to be picked up by hand, along with the rubbish that BabyBro's dogs drag in from local building sites (they don't have a restraining collar). I don't want to do this on a Sunday - A little man could do it. ThePrincess on the other hand is contained with a specialised electric fence and collar that give her a warning beep then a zap if she tries to breach the perimeter - yep, broken this morning so I spent half an hour splicing 9 strand copper wire and cutting my fingers with a blunt wire stripping thingy - a little man could do that. The liquidamber that shades the pool so amply in summer is now allowing it's palm sized leaves to block my skimmer boxes so I have to delve into the icy water and retrieve them by hand so that the filter functions properly - a little man could do that. And finally, I have to remove the oil and mud stains left by DrummerBoy when he cleaned his motocross boots on my back verandah (why he couldn't do it on the grass I'll never know). This will involve the use of obnoxious solvents and elbow grease - a little man could definitely do that . . . he could also change the five failed light bulbs in my house (they all go at once) take the misdirected letter that was delivered last week to my neighbour, spray the weeds that are beginning to appear in the crevices of the cobblestones and take down the blasted marquee from last week's party and tidy the shed which is actually a double garage full of motorbikes and rubbish and rewire the back fence which has been demolished by a falling branch. Instead, my Sunday is spent laboring all on my todd - with the exception of three labrador supervisors of works - before I go and replenish my spartan pantry to feed the marauding hoards. By 4.00 I'll be able to relax and enjoy the fruits of my labours just an hour before it gets dark. See . . . I really do need a little man and while he's busying himself with my light chores . . . I could enjoy some retail therapy.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Most Romantic Scene
Actually, and I must go to bed because I've had far to much to drink and am feeling way to schmoozy. The most romantic TV scene I've ever seen is that one in Phenomenon where she shaves John Travlota near the kitchen sink when he thinks he's lost the plot and he's let himself go. No sex, no overt sexuality, just this lovely, tender, caring scene where she's concerned that he's not the man he should be and slowly slivers away the layers of neglect. Or maybe she's just sick of pash rash. Just Lovely. What's you're fave romantic scene . . . moment?
Party for One
Some explanation? I'm alone as par on Saturday night, Iron Chefs have done all they can do with eggs and TV is boring. I haven't had enough chardy's to feel tired so I've been resurecting the old CDs and having a little danceathon by myself. And, in the process have discovered some old gems. Mainly because most of our music these days is downloaded on ipod the old CD collection rarely gets a run. I have been rocking my socks off in a mummyish kinda way (you don't wanna go there) Thank God nobody can see me other than my dawg to: Tricky: Cold Steel, Prince: Diamonds and Pearls, Alice in Chains: Jar of Flies; Chemical Brothers: Surrender . . .I am exhausted and all my dog training "don't jump up" has gone . . .well to the dogs.
More stuff being played during my party for one includes: Pearl Jam, Massive Attack, Pacifier, Radio Head; The Cure and Korn. I know my back will hurt in the morning and once Josh Pyke sings Lines on Palms, I'll burst into tears! Fortunately I don't have Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah or I'd commit suicide. I want to find someone who feels this way and show them that being outdrawn isn't the end of the world. There's always someone else to pick up the pieces. I'm here wherever you are!
Well I heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do ya?
Well it goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Well Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
she tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Well baby I've been here before
I’ve seen this room and I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew ya
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Well there was a time when you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show that to me do you?
And remember when I moved in you?
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Well maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who'd out drew ya
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah <<(held for a long time)
Hallelujah
.
More stuff being played during my party for one includes: Pearl Jam, Massive Attack, Pacifier, Radio Head; The Cure and Korn. I know my back will hurt in the morning and once Josh Pyke sings Lines on Palms, I'll burst into tears! Fortunately I don't have Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah or I'd commit suicide. I want to find someone who feels this way and show them that being outdrawn isn't the end of the world. There's always someone else to pick up the pieces. I'm here wherever you are!
Well I heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do ya?
Well it goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Well Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
she tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Well baby I've been here before
I’ve seen this room and I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew ya
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Well there was a time when you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show that to me do you?
And remember when I moved in you?
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Well maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who'd out drew ya
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah <<(held for a long time)
Hallelujah
.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Make Me Over
Grandad is lamenting the contemporary makeover of his kitchen but I have to confess, I am an addict of lifestyle shows. I love Homes and Gardens, Backyard Blitz, Vasili's Garden, Changing Rooms et al. Even Jamie's Kitchen and subsequent programs get me hooked.
I want to write in and get them to do over my garden which is in dire need of a mega-prune and spruce up and make my 80's home look cosy and antique or snow white and minimalist. I had a friend who sadly was diagnosed with a brain tumour 4 years ago. His garden was overgrown, the kids hopeless and his poor wife, now The MerryWidow, struggling with the situation. We had a mad working bee one weekend and divested the scruffy mess of all the weedage and Kykuyu grass (a tough, ground spreading grass that you can see grow when it rains). It wasn't much but we made an impact. I wrote then to one of these backyard makeover programs, sure that his plight might be taken on board and that they might just show up and spruce up his tiny garden whilst he lay there, incapable of speech or communication. Nothing, niet, nada . . .not even a reply or 'he's not worthy'. That really upset me as each Friday evening, this particular show would do a mega rennovation of someone's small garden because they'd defaulted on their mortgage or they'd fostered a child or sponsored the local football team. Not that they weren't worthy causes but it did put me off a little.
Then I found out that when they do these garden renno's, the stars turn up and pose with a wheelbarrow or plonk a plant in the appropriate position, the pretty girls wear short shorts and slap a single brushstroke of paint on a wall, the tanned and muscled carpenter type talks measurements and weilds the latest power tool but then the friends and neighbours actually finish the job! The rennovation is so superfluous, so shallow, so surface that a downpour of rain often sees it ruined. Fuckem. I'd rather have my messy hedges and bald patches and damn shedding gum trees than a manicured plot . . . that's a lie . . . I long for a structured garden, an 'outdoor' room, a box hedge, a water feature and a sunlit courtyard . . . who am I kidding?
And they can throw in a good dose of nip and tuck while they're at it . . .I need an extreme makeover!
I want to write in and get them to do over my garden which is in dire need of a mega-prune and spruce up and make my 80's home look cosy and antique or snow white and minimalist. I had a friend who sadly was diagnosed with a brain tumour 4 years ago. His garden was overgrown, the kids hopeless and his poor wife, now The MerryWidow, struggling with the situation. We had a mad working bee one weekend and divested the scruffy mess of all the weedage and Kykuyu grass (a tough, ground spreading grass that you can see grow when it rains). It wasn't much but we made an impact. I wrote then to one of these backyard makeover programs, sure that his plight might be taken on board and that they might just show up and spruce up his tiny garden whilst he lay there, incapable of speech or communication. Nothing, niet, nada . . .not even a reply or 'he's not worthy'. That really upset me as each Friday evening, this particular show would do a mega rennovation of someone's small garden because they'd defaulted on their mortgage or they'd fostered a child or sponsored the local football team. Not that they weren't worthy causes but it did put me off a little.
Then I found out that when they do these garden renno's, the stars turn up and pose with a wheelbarrow or plonk a plant in the appropriate position, the pretty girls wear short shorts and slap a single brushstroke of paint on a wall, the tanned and muscled carpenter type talks measurements and weilds the latest power tool but then the friends and neighbours actually finish the job! The rennovation is so superfluous, so shallow, so surface that a downpour of rain often sees it ruined. Fuckem. I'd rather have my messy hedges and bald patches and damn shedding gum trees than a manicured plot . . . that's a lie . . . I long for a structured garden, an 'outdoor' room, a box hedge, a water feature and a sunlit courtyard . . . who am I kidding?
And they can throw in a good dose of nip and tuck while they're at it . . .I need an extreme makeover!
People of 'Interest'
I've just been woken at 5:30am by two very nice policemen in fatigues - the ones in blue jumpsuits tucked into their bovver boots and little peaked caps. I answered the door fearing the worst of course although all my little piggies were in their blankets.
P: Sorry to wake you so early.
Me: That's alright, better you than an irate taxi driver (the last time I was woken involved a driver who BabyBro had dogged for an earlier arrival)
P: Funny you should say that because this actually involves a taxi driver. Does James live here?
Me: Um No, he lives next door. Nobody's hurt are they?
P: No, nothing like that. We knocked on the door but nobody is answering *maglite torch hits eyes*
Me: I'll take you over there
I Dutifully escorted them to my brother's bedroom window and told him the good news, that two coppers were looking for his wayward son. Whilst waiting for BabyBro to don a jumper and some pants a short swarthy man joins them - obviously the taxi driver. They asked if anyone in either house was 18 - they're not, the youngest is 19 and a sweet young thing - butter wouldn't melt and all that. And that was it. I discreetly retreated home to make a cup of tea - hardly worth going back to bed now - and in they went - stayed for about 10 minutes and left. I've heard nothing since. He probably ditched his fare and did a runner. It wouldn't be the first time, NaughtyNeph makes a habit of it. (another little secret known by Auntie Nell but not his parents) He's leaving for the UK next week so hopefully after that we won't be known to Castle Hill Police as a 'family of interest'.
The point is, a fully kitted squad car and three people, two in uniform approached both houses, knocked quite loudly on both doors and not one dog made a whimper. It reminded me of the time when I was dreaming of helicopters (I would have rather been dreaming about Keanau Reeves but thats the way it was) . I could hear the rotor blades thud- thudding and stirred briefly at about 2:30am to find that there was a helicopter so low it nearly kissed the tops of the gum trees. There were search lights and squad cars and policemen crawling all over the back yard, the place was lit up like an alien invasion. Apparently someone had broken into a bank building not far from us and the search was on. Again, not one dog stirred. Out of 8 people living here, only BabyBro and I heard the commotion which went on for about half an hour. I was stunned, besides the noise and the flood-lit back paddock there were people running everywhere. ThePrincess stayed on the bed, Nelson briefly looked up and decided it was all too hard and Keira snored through it all. Labradors might be lovely dogs, great with kids but they welcome intruders with a wagging tale.
Now, how can I discreetly find out what this was all about . . .BabyBro has a habit of keeping his own children's indiscretions to himself but he occasionally berates my kids for making a mess in the pool room or other mild misdemeaners (they're perfect of course) . . . he'll shut up from now on. Ironically, when we had our little falling out about the noisy rehearsal a couple of weeks ago, he yelled at me in a drunken rage that I was 'irresponsible' for allowing a band to wake the dead at 9.00 on a Friday night . . . takes the cake really doesn't it. Karma is a wonderful thing.
P: Sorry to wake you so early.
Me: That's alright, better you than an irate taxi driver (the last time I was woken involved a driver who BabyBro had dogged for an earlier arrival)
P: Funny you should say that because this actually involves a taxi driver. Does James live here?
Me: Um No, he lives next door. Nobody's hurt are they?
P: No, nothing like that. We knocked on the door but nobody is answering *maglite torch hits eyes*
Me: I'll take you over there
I Dutifully escorted them to my brother's bedroom window and told him the good news, that two coppers were looking for his wayward son. Whilst waiting for BabyBro to don a jumper and some pants a short swarthy man joins them - obviously the taxi driver. They asked if anyone in either house was 18 - they're not, the youngest is 19 and a sweet young thing - butter wouldn't melt and all that. And that was it. I discreetly retreated home to make a cup of tea - hardly worth going back to bed now - and in they went - stayed for about 10 minutes and left. I've heard nothing since. He probably ditched his fare and did a runner. It wouldn't be the first time, NaughtyNeph makes a habit of it. (another little secret known by Auntie Nell but not his parents) He's leaving for the UK next week so hopefully after that we won't be known to Castle Hill Police as a 'family of interest'.
The point is, a fully kitted squad car and three people, two in uniform approached both houses, knocked quite loudly on both doors and not one dog made a whimper. It reminded me of the time when I was dreaming of helicopters (I would have rather been dreaming about Keanau Reeves but thats the way it was) . I could hear the rotor blades thud- thudding and stirred briefly at about 2:30am to find that there was a helicopter so low it nearly kissed the tops of the gum trees. There were search lights and squad cars and policemen crawling all over the back yard, the place was lit up like an alien invasion. Apparently someone had broken into a bank building not far from us and the search was on. Again, not one dog stirred. Out of 8 people living here, only BabyBro and I heard the commotion which went on for about half an hour. I was stunned, besides the noise and the flood-lit back paddock there were people running everywhere. ThePrincess stayed on the bed, Nelson briefly looked up and decided it was all too hard and Keira snored through it all. Labradors might be lovely dogs, great with kids but they welcome intruders with a wagging tale.
Now, how can I discreetly find out what this was all about . . .BabyBro has a habit of keeping his own children's indiscretions to himself but he occasionally berates my kids for making a mess in the pool room or other mild misdemeaners (they're perfect of course) . . . he'll shut up from now on. Ironically, when we had our little falling out about the noisy rehearsal a couple of weeks ago, he yelled at me in a drunken rage that I was 'irresponsible' for allowing a band to wake the dead at 9.00 on a Friday night . . . takes the cake really doesn't it. Karma is a wonderful thing.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Getting Ink Done
I never really thought about getting a tattoo. In my youth, piercing was the weird and wonderful thing to do . . . My Grandpa had a dancing Hawaian girl and a navy anchor on his arm but the rest of the family remained ink free. DrummerBoy toyed with the idea of a tattoo to shock his mother but since it didn’t have the desired effect and he basically couldn’t afford it, nothing happened. ClareBear resisted the temptation despite a number of trips to Byron Bay where pretty much everyone gets ink done. Something to do with her fear of the needle.
Char at work had a huge butterfly tattoed on her back at age 35 and Butterfly Girl has had one since she was 18 – her dad bought it for her! Nickers has a huge one across his shoulders saying “Offensive” and it is! He’ll regret it because he’s a puny red-head who couldn’t knock the skin of a rice pudding. I think the Cricketer actually had a sort of Gallic sword on his leg from memory but I could be wrong. I really hate the biker gang tats of naked women and curly snakes which cover the entirety of the arm – looks like they need a good wash or the 'family' kind like M & M's tattoo of his daughter on his arm, it’s tacky and tasteless.
Some however, are interesting . . .LucyLoop designed her own little grape vine around her lovely tanned upper arm and I’ve always been a sucker for a tattoed Polynesian since my stay in Tahiti many years ago.
I must confess, I’ve never been much of a rebel so didn’t see the need in my youth nor am I a fan now I’m older . . .a s you get old and fat, the colours fade and the design spreads. It got me thinking about the ‘need’ and I found a few snippets on tatoo-ology:
Ta Moko is the tapu (sacred) form of family and personal identification among those of Maori whakapapa (genealogy). Genealogy is so important to the Maori people that they know their family history back 2000 years. Moko is the process of carving (cutting deep grooves) and coloring a family history story-telling pattern into the skin of a Maori descendant. Copying these styles is considered very rude as they are specific to the Maori and their ancestry. “Nuv” my friend’s daughter’s boyfriend has just asked his uncles permission for his first tatoo . . . He’s 21.
The most common Chinese tattoos are ones that are supposed to represent ideas and qualities like love or strength. For centuries, the Chinese dragon has been a symbol of power and mystery. In fact, Chinese people all over the world are affectionately known as "lung de chuan ren", or the "descendants of the dragon". It’s also the symbol of the Shao Lin Monks and Chinese Triads. Funny, I live in a huge Chinese community but you don’t see many traditional tattoos at all. I guess they’re out of fashion these days.
Getting tattooed was also seen as a rite of passage into adulthood for tribal communities. A belief goes that if a girl can't take the pain of tattooing, she is un-marriageable, because she will never be able to deal with the pain of child birth. As if there’s any comparison between a bit of ink being done on your upper arm and squeezing out a watermelon! If a boy can't deal with the pain he is considered to be a bad risk as a warrior, and could become isolated from the tribe or grow up to become a computer geek and rule the world. Indigenous Australians do it the civilised way and paint their bodies rather than create something more permanent.
Kanji Tatoos are of Japanese phrases but given the poor understanding of the English language can be disastrous when translated. You need to know exactly what your kanji characters mean before you get them emblazened on your flesh. There have been instances of people brandishing beautiful kanji characters that actually say:
The history of the Celtic peoples goes back thousands of years. The early Celts displayed their skills in complex artwork particularly metal, jewelry and weapons as they were regarded as fierce warriors by the Romans. Evidence of celtic crossses and celtic artwork can still be found all over Ireland.
The ancient Celts passed knowledge down through an oral tradition of storytelling and didn't keep many written records, consequently, there is little evidence of their tattooing remaining even though celtic cross tattoos and celtic knot tattoos are very popular designs.
Most of Celtic tattoo designs are taken from the Irish Illuminated Manuscripts 'The Book of Kells', on display in the library of Trinity College in Dublin. Knots with no end and designs with a never ending path may represent the permanence and the continuum of life, love and faith.
Char at work had a huge butterfly tattoed on her back at age 35 and Butterfly Girl has had one since she was 18 – her dad bought it for her! Nickers has a huge one across his shoulders saying “Offensive” and it is! He’ll regret it because he’s a puny red-head who couldn’t knock the skin of a rice pudding. I think the Cricketer actually had a sort of Gallic sword on his leg from memory but I could be wrong. I really hate the biker gang tats of naked women and curly snakes which cover the entirety of the arm – looks like they need a good wash or the 'family' kind like M & M's tattoo of his daughter on his arm, it’s tacky and tasteless.
Some however, are interesting . . .LucyLoop designed her own little grape vine around her lovely tanned upper arm and I’ve always been a sucker for a tattoed Polynesian since my stay in Tahiti many years ago.
I must confess, I’ve never been much of a rebel so didn’t see the need in my youth nor am I a fan now I’m older . . .a s you get old and fat, the colours fade and the design spreads. It got me thinking about the ‘need’ and I found a few snippets on tatoo-ology:
Ta Moko is the tapu (sacred) form of family and personal identification among those of Maori whakapapa (genealogy). Genealogy is so important to the Maori people that they know their family history back 2000 years. Moko is the process of carving (cutting deep grooves) and coloring a family history story-telling pattern into the skin of a Maori descendant. Copying these styles is considered very rude as they are specific to the Maori and their ancestry. “Nuv” my friend’s daughter’s boyfriend has just asked his uncles permission for his first tatoo . . . He’s 21.
The most common Chinese tattoos are ones that are supposed to represent ideas and qualities like love or strength. For centuries, the Chinese dragon has been a symbol of power and mystery. In fact, Chinese people all over the world are affectionately known as "lung de chuan ren", or the "descendants of the dragon". It’s also the symbol of the Shao Lin Monks and Chinese Triads. Funny, I live in a huge Chinese community but you don’t see many traditional tattoos at all. I guess they’re out of fashion these days.
Getting tattooed was also seen as a rite of passage into adulthood for tribal communities. A belief goes that if a girl can't take the pain of tattooing, she is un-marriageable, because she will never be able to deal with the pain of child birth. As if there’s any comparison between a bit of ink being done on your upper arm and squeezing out a watermelon! If a boy can't deal with the pain he is considered to be a bad risk as a warrior, and could become isolated from the tribe or grow up to become a computer geek and rule the world. Indigenous Australians do it the civilised way and paint their bodies rather than create something more permanent.
Kanji Tatoos are of Japanese phrases but given the poor understanding of the English language can be disastrous when translated. You need to know exactly what your kanji characters mean before you get them emblazened on your flesh. There have been instances of people brandishing beautiful kanji characters that actually say:
- Extremely Military
- Affairs Stopping
- Crazy Diarrohea
The history of the Celtic peoples goes back thousands of years. The early Celts displayed their skills in complex artwork particularly metal, jewelry and weapons as they were regarded as fierce warriors by the Romans. Evidence of celtic crossses and celtic artwork can still be found all over Ireland.
The ancient Celts passed knowledge down through an oral tradition of storytelling and didn't keep many written records, consequently, there is little evidence of their tattooing remaining even though celtic cross tattoos and celtic knot tattoos are very popular designs.
Most of Celtic tattoo designs are taken from the Irish Illuminated Manuscripts 'The Book of Kells', on display in the library of Trinity College in Dublin. Knots with no end and designs with a never ending path may represent the permanence and the continuum of life, love and faith.
So there you go . . . getting ink done . . . just go to a reputable tattooist and if it’s a detailed one, make sure you’ve got an expert. Or, buy one of those little black sticky ones . . .it’ll wear off by the time you’re sick of it.
The Honeymoon Period
Blogging is a bit like a romantic relationship . . .
First there’s the nervous venture into the interweb. It’s like walking into a bar when you don’t know a soul and putting yourself out there. Only the bar’s dark so you can’t see what anyone looks like. All you want to do is be ‘picked up’ have some attention paid to you - maybe a party pash and go home. Just a little recognition that you are part of the world at large and worthy of knowing. You start with nervous short stories or little vents or little exposes on your life thinking that only the kids will read it or perhaps nobody will notice you swanning around this virtual room.
But people do start talking to you. It’s exciting. You know them all so there’s nothing of real interest but someone’s reading your ditties and gaining a little insight into the ‘you’ that perhaps they previously never had. Then someone links you, then someone else tags you, then you get mentioned on Podcast and all of a sudden you’re a star . . a novelty . . like belonging to your boyfriend’s circle of friends.
You can’t wait to check the comments. You have a few conversations, let a little of yourself go and see what bounces back. Then there’s that nice community feeling where you start to say things that you think others might be interested in because you don’t really want to bore them with your pedestrian problems. It gets even more intense when you single someone out, or others single you out, and emails exchange allowing you a slightly more ‘personal’ slant on the people you’ve been chatting with via the blog. Now you’re among the inner circle – it’s addictive, flattering, euphoric. It’s the heady, passionate phase of a burgeoning relationship. You're allowed into the virtual boudoir for a glimpse of what these people are like outside their bloggy habitat. It’s flattering, interesting and strangely warming and guess what, you begin to really care about these people you’ve never met.
But as with all relationships there comes a time when the first flutter of romance gives way to the realisation that now you need to make a decision. Is this really what you want. Can you make a commitment to this in all honesty? Can you sustain the pace, maintain the momentum, remain of interest or is it the beginning of self destructive behaviour that can cruel so many good relationships. Are you committed or commitmentphobic, in it for the one night stand or the long haul?
This is where I am now. I have emails of the people I care about the most from my blog family so I will always keep in touch. I need the contact and commaradarie I just feel I haven’t got much to say on a daily basis. Maybe I’ll go back to weekend storytelling and, like rationing sex, it might keep the relationship interesting (then again, you might look for yourjollies elsewhere.)
First there’s the nervous venture into the interweb. It’s like walking into a bar when you don’t know a soul and putting yourself out there. Only the bar’s dark so you can’t see what anyone looks like. All you want to do is be ‘picked up’ have some attention paid to you - maybe a party pash and go home. Just a little recognition that you are part of the world at large and worthy of knowing. You start with nervous short stories or little vents or little exposes on your life thinking that only the kids will read it or perhaps nobody will notice you swanning around this virtual room.
But people do start talking to you. It’s exciting. You know them all so there’s nothing of real interest but someone’s reading your ditties and gaining a little insight into the ‘you’ that perhaps they previously never had. Then someone links you, then someone else tags you, then you get mentioned on Podcast and all of a sudden you’re a star . . a novelty . . like belonging to your boyfriend’s circle of friends.
You can’t wait to check the comments. You have a few conversations, let a little of yourself go and see what bounces back. Then there’s that nice community feeling where you start to say things that you think others might be interested in because you don’t really want to bore them with your pedestrian problems. It gets even more intense when you single someone out, or others single you out, and emails exchange allowing you a slightly more ‘personal’ slant on the people you’ve been chatting with via the blog. Now you’re among the inner circle – it’s addictive, flattering, euphoric. It’s the heady, passionate phase of a burgeoning relationship. You're allowed into the virtual boudoir for a glimpse of what these people are like outside their bloggy habitat. It’s flattering, interesting and strangely warming and guess what, you begin to really care about these people you’ve never met.
But as with all relationships there comes a time when the first flutter of romance gives way to the realisation that now you need to make a decision. Is this really what you want. Can you make a commitment to this in all honesty? Can you sustain the pace, maintain the momentum, remain of interest or is it the beginning of self destructive behaviour that can cruel so many good relationships. Are you committed or commitmentphobic, in it for the one night stand or the long haul?
This is where I am now. I have emails of the people I care about the most from my blog family so I will always keep in touch. I need the contact and commaradarie I just feel I haven’t got much to say on a daily basis. Maybe I’ll go back to weekend storytelling and, like rationing sex, it might keep the relationship interesting (then again, you might look for yourjollies elsewhere.)
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Death of the Dell
I'm plonking on ClareBear's Mac at themoment with a keyboard that is so tight, it misses every other bloody letter. The Dell has had a wobbly. That's my usual choice of PC but for some reason it just won't start up. I tried to repair but it wouldn't and DrummerBoy of course has a 10,000 word essay being kept prisoner within it's bowells so I can't risk reinstalling XP. I'd just installed skype as well and bought a headset to test the free phone call thingy. Bugga . . another expense to at least get his file released and at best a fully functioning PC which should really be relegated to the scrap heap. Just something else to do next week, as if I haven't got enough on my hands . . . maybe I'll buy a new one. I wish I had half a technical brain.
I Am a Survivor!
It's 2:30 in the afternoon and I'm wondering if hair of the dog might do it for me. Aktor had their public debut in a marquee in my back garden. It was loud, very loud but only for an hour or so. The tents have gone, the sulos are full of bottles, the 200 sausages that were in my fridge have been removed and I'm left with 10 poached eggs, hollandaise sauce, and a big box of stale bread rolls. The lounge is still full of amplifiers but the marquee is coming down.
Well with only 4 hours sleep I guess we could call the night a success. The boys did a full rehearsal on Saturday afternoon and blew the neighbourhood half way up the mountains then backed up again at night. We ended up with about 70 people but it sounded like 200. There were red, black and white balloons in the pool and streamers aplenty. Even a few token red, black and white skimply knickers to decorate the gardenias (interesting choice of prop). They were generally well behaved, no neighbours complained and the police were a no show, so all in all, a successful party. It was good to meet a lot of DrummerBoy's friends who I've heard about but not had the opportunity to meet face to face. LeviRapper is lovely and has a bit of a crush on ClareBear. I won't be having one like it any time soon though. The bonus was GayBoyNick who is my new best friend and can move in with me at any time given his talent for cooking. He made the most fantastic nibbly bits, little tarts with sun dried tomato and cheese, and other's with tomato, caramalised onion and fetta and other little vegetarian puffs and pizzas - absolutely delicious. Then I found out we had a chef in our midst who volunteered to cook Eggs Florentine for those who were still here this morning. He did a stirling job of feeding 16 people. It was great, I had one lad in the kitchen, another cooking bacon on the barbie and the other's laying the outside tables. Talk about putting the boys to work!
There was a time when I thought they'd never go after a late brekky as the videos of the night before came out and I saw what really went on after I went to bed. Very messy. Drunken dancing, some strange liquor that burns green and badly behaved boys. Only one spew and an incident of infantile stone throwing this morning from my nephew's mates who thought it would be hilarious to peg pebbles at the little tent city sleeping soundly in the morning mist. Morons. The same bunch that I had to chastise at 3:50 this morning for being noisy idiots when everyone else had gone to bed. There's always half a dozen of these party pricks but fortunately, none were DrummerBoy's friends - all belonged to NaughtyNeph so we got sweet revenge by clanging about at 9.00 in the morning while they were sleeping soundly.
I was a good night. I was only one of five token oldies but we had fun. Much kudos to the most tolerant mother in the world even if I did lose it a bit late at night and a good cleanup attempt by the team. Pictures will follow as they come through but since my camera is broken, I have to wait for others to upload and I don't think there'll be much of that happening today. Out of 10? Probably a 9.5 Next one? Never.
Well with only 4 hours sleep I guess we could call the night a success. The boys did a full rehearsal on Saturday afternoon and blew the neighbourhood half way up the mountains then backed up again at night. We ended up with about 70 people but it sounded like 200. There were red, black and white balloons in the pool and streamers aplenty. Even a few token red, black and white skimply knickers to decorate the gardenias (interesting choice of prop). They were generally well behaved, no neighbours complained and the police were a no show, so all in all, a successful party. It was good to meet a lot of DrummerBoy's friends who I've heard about but not had the opportunity to meet face to face. LeviRapper is lovely and has a bit of a crush on ClareBear. I won't be having one like it any time soon though. The bonus was GayBoyNick who is my new best friend and can move in with me at any time given his talent for cooking. He made the most fantastic nibbly bits, little tarts with sun dried tomato and cheese, and other's with tomato, caramalised onion and fetta and other little vegetarian puffs and pizzas - absolutely delicious. Then I found out we had a chef in our midst who volunteered to cook Eggs Florentine for those who were still here this morning. He did a stirling job of feeding 16 people. It was great, I had one lad in the kitchen, another cooking bacon on the barbie and the other's laying the outside tables. Talk about putting the boys to work!
There was a time when I thought they'd never go after a late brekky as the videos of the night before came out and I saw what really went on after I went to bed. Very messy. Drunken dancing, some strange liquor that burns green and badly behaved boys. Only one spew and an incident of infantile stone throwing this morning from my nephew's mates who thought it would be hilarious to peg pebbles at the little tent city sleeping soundly in the morning mist. Morons. The same bunch that I had to chastise at 3:50 this morning for being noisy idiots when everyone else had gone to bed. There's always half a dozen of these party pricks but fortunately, none were DrummerBoy's friends - all belonged to NaughtyNeph so we got sweet revenge by clanging about at 9.00 in the morning while they were sleeping soundly.
I was a good night. I was only one of five token oldies but we had fun. Much kudos to the most tolerant mother in the world even if I did lose it a bit late at night and a good cleanup attempt by the team. Pictures will follow as they come through but since my camera is broken, I have to wait for others to upload and I don't think there'll be much of that happening today. Out of 10? Probably a 9.5 Next one? Never.
Friday, May 25, 2007
The Big Gig
The invitations are out, the posters are printed, the flyers are flung. The marquee is up, the caterer catering and the decorators decorating . . . The Band is ready, the Rapper's been practicing and the DJ's been scratching . . . My living room is full of microphones and stands, foldbacks, carpet squares and huge amplifiers. The police have been warned, the neighbours told . . . The big gig is tomorrow, thank you to those who think I'm either cool or crazy but have wished me luck. Having a live band at home with over a hundred twenty-somethings moshing in my gardenias . . . . I wonder sometimes about my sanity . . . my stars for tomorrow (Saturday) . .
You need to stay aware of your actions today, for your tendency might be to bite off more than you can chew and then get angry later because you have too much to do. Be careful; since you frequently make your needs secondary to someone else's, your desire to take care of yourself first now may surprise others. Ask nicely and you just may get what you want without much fuss at all.
Oh boy . . . party on dudes!
This is the next gig . . . not in my garden . . . you're all welcome:
Oh boy . . . party on dudes!
This is the next gig . . . not in my garden . . . you're all welcome:
First, Best, Last
This isn't a maudlin' post, just an observation of the lucky. I’m a bit sorry I won’t grow old with the love of my life. Have someone to fart in bed with, dribble down my cardy with, hold hands with when we go to the shops – someone to help me change the doona cover . . . move furniture so that I can vaccum behind it . . . lean on to stop me going into tilt while I put my slippers on . . . fold the sheets . . . travel with . . . it must be nice to grow old with someone once the chickens have flown the coop – just you and the wife or hubby.
There I was, standing at Wendy’s waiting for my smoothie to be smoothed and this gorgeous elderley couple were pondering the menu board and deciding which icey delight they should sink their dentures into. They were so absorbing and absorbed, I couldn't stop looking at them. Impeccably dressed and groomed – he in a sort of Donegal tweed and beautifully trimmed white moustache, her in a pretty pink twin set with pearlised buttons and a fitted skirt in an almost identical tweed. Probably in their late 70’s and both had all the time in the world to consider the pro’s and con’s of a single or triple cone, fat or low fat, ice cream or sorbet, cup or cone, sprinkles or hundreds and thousands . . . so many decisions but they were unphased and worked through the lot! Bless their cotton socks.
I envy my inlaws as well. They’re in their mid 70’s and although poor, once-SpunkyArt is badgered a bit by his loving nemesis Betty, he’s a weatherbeaten Australian who slightly whistles through his false teeth when he talks. Once a sinewey Fitter and Turner for the Shell Corporatin, he could shimmy his way around that spaghetti junction of stainless steel tubing and bang away to the ponit of suffering industrial deafness . . . “what’s that . . .?”
He is very domesticated; cleans, cooks, marinades his BBQ meat, drives everywhere, plays tennis and a round of golf, babysits his younger grandson and keeps abreast the issues of the world. He has a hug that could break you in two which is amazing for such a slight and frail looking man – almost as if he just can’t believe he’s going to get the opportunity to do it again. She’s a short and fiesty bosomy type who can talk the leg of a chair and gets all her valuable information from New Idea and A Current Affair but she adores DrummerBoy and ClareBear as they are absolute angels compared to the ‘other lot’. These two finish each other’s sentences, know each other so well that they can almost predict what’s going to happen next. They’re in perfect sync and happy as larks.
My best friend is in her 26th year of marriage to her childhood sweetheart and whilst his shoulder length hippy hair is now a ring of closely cropped grey with a monk like hole in the top and she's looking a little thin and drawn they look at each other like they did in their teens. They even have pet names for each other, steal a quick kiss at work and hold hands when they’re bushwalking. If it wasn’t so genuine, you’d think it was saccharin but nope, they too have managed to preserve the longevity of their relationship despite being totally different personalities. He’s the only man she’s ever been with and and she wouldn't have it any other way.
As my kids get older and plan their long trips abroad and road trips with the band, or more serious relationships that will see them branch out on their own, the prospect of dwelling in an empty house is becoming very real. Well, I’ve had my first love, my best love . . . there’s always room for the last love . . . and of course there’s always Paris . . I remain cautiously optimistic and at worst, I might take in a ‘lodger’. Know what I mean?
There I was, standing at Wendy’s waiting for my smoothie to be smoothed and this gorgeous elderley couple were pondering the menu board and deciding which icey delight they should sink their dentures into. They were so absorbing and absorbed, I couldn't stop looking at them. Impeccably dressed and groomed – he in a sort of Donegal tweed and beautifully trimmed white moustache, her in a pretty pink twin set with pearlised buttons and a fitted skirt in an almost identical tweed. Probably in their late 70’s and both had all the time in the world to consider the pro’s and con’s of a single or triple cone, fat or low fat, ice cream or sorbet, cup or cone, sprinkles or hundreds and thousands . . . so many decisions but they were unphased and worked through the lot! Bless their cotton socks.
I envy my inlaws as well. They’re in their mid 70’s and although poor, once-SpunkyArt is badgered a bit by his loving nemesis Betty, he’s a weatherbeaten Australian who slightly whistles through his false teeth when he talks. Once a sinewey Fitter and Turner for the Shell Corporatin, he could shimmy his way around that spaghetti junction of stainless steel tubing and bang away to the ponit of suffering industrial deafness . . . “what’s that . . .?”
He is very domesticated; cleans, cooks, marinades his BBQ meat, drives everywhere, plays tennis and a round of golf, babysits his younger grandson and keeps abreast the issues of the world. He has a hug that could break you in two which is amazing for such a slight and frail looking man – almost as if he just can’t believe he’s going to get the opportunity to do it again. She’s a short and fiesty bosomy type who can talk the leg of a chair and gets all her valuable information from New Idea and A Current Affair but she adores DrummerBoy and ClareBear as they are absolute angels compared to the ‘other lot’. These two finish each other’s sentences, know each other so well that they can almost predict what’s going to happen next. They’re in perfect sync and happy as larks.
My best friend is in her 26th year of marriage to her childhood sweetheart and whilst his shoulder length hippy hair is now a ring of closely cropped grey with a monk like hole in the top and she's looking a little thin and drawn they look at each other like they did in their teens. They even have pet names for each other, steal a quick kiss at work and hold hands when they’re bushwalking. If it wasn’t so genuine, you’d think it was saccharin but nope, they too have managed to preserve the longevity of their relationship despite being totally different personalities. He’s the only man she’s ever been with and and she wouldn't have it any other way.
As my kids get older and plan their long trips abroad and road trips with the band, or more serious relationships that will see them branch out on their own, the prospect of dwelling in an empty house is becoming very real. Well, I’ve had my first love, my best love . . . there’s always room for the last love . . . and of course there’s always Paris . . I remain cautiously optimistic and at worst, I might take in a ‘lodger’. Know what I mean?
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Too Much Information
There has been a revival of the 1980’s push to recreate the Australia Card. This would be a single identification card with some sort of biometric security such as a retina imprint or fingerprint which would combine the current:
Centrelink Benefits (social security) card
Medicare (health card)
DIMIA (Immigration)
Commonwealth Senior’s Health Card
Seniors Card
Tax File Number and information
Birth, Deaths and Marriages information
Contact details.
These agencies already speak to each other without us being aware. For example, when ClareBear was at university she qualified for a Student Allowance of $280 per fortnight. This is payable even when overseas but income must be reported on a monthly basis. Since she was gone for longer than a month, I was ‘boned’ up on how to report her income in her absence. I received a letter from Centrelink saying that because she was out of the country, she did not need to report her income. They knew she was overseas because DIMIA (Department of Immigration, Multicultural and Indigenous Affairs) had linked into their systems when they granted her exit visa.
I claim a Family Tax Benefit. An income based tax rebate for children under 20 who are studying full time. It’s means tested so only a small amount. However, again, Centrelink knows when my chidren have left university. Their systems are tied in with the Department of Education.
My point being that all this information exists, is known and collectible but just not all in one place.
Whilst having this information on a government registry is one thing . . . my reservation is what if this information was ‘easily’ available to private enterprise.
My insurance company for example, cannot access these records without my permission or authority. If they could access my medical records, might they reconsider my suitability for Trauma, Income Protection and or Life Insurance? I already have to declare if I have AIDS, a smoker, diabetic, epileptic or any of a number of conditions. What if they found out I carried some obscure gene that made me depressed . . . would I be a suicide risk and therefore not covered, or if I had suffered depression or had some genetic disorder . . . would they still insure me?
I’ve always been a proponent of “nothing to hide . . .nothing to fear”. Until I heard Brian mention that even a traffic offence could cause problems with gun licensing should you wish to become a sports shooter . . . I hadn’t thought of that. Imagine if employers had access to your ciminal record, offences minor or otherwise, which currently, thanks to very stringent Privacy Laws only have to be declared in very specific areas such as child care or the care of other vulnerable people.
When I register my car I can get the mechanic to award a pink roadworthy certificate and forward it electronically to the Roads and Traffic Authority. Then I can pay my compulsary third party online and that is forwarded electronically to the RTA, then all that information is ready when I go online to pay my registration (road tax). This means that the RTA has records from my mechanic about my car, it's age, condition etc. and contact details, plus details from my insurance company who have everything on me from past infringements and claims to all my personal details and credit card information.
I can order everything from health insurance, Mothers Day gifts to my favourite perfume, horse feed . . .you name it. . . via the internet. Straight away they have my contact details, credit card details (which is why I always use a card with a low limit so that if I'm fleeced, it won't hurt as much.) This happens now so why am I so concerned about privacy.
Then there are the direct debits that link into my bank account - insurance, charitable donations, electricity bill, etc. They know what I consume, when I consume it and how I pay for it.
So, food for thought. I’m vassilating between the pros and cons here. Is privacy protectable? Should I fear having everything about me bandied across the universe? I’m a good girl I am, so why should I be worried? I was arrested once for protesting at uni but no charges laid . . but what if they had been . . . would that have prevented me from getting one of the best jobs I ever had with the National Exchange of Police Information? You betcha. Criminal history checks were part of the employment criteria. Would they prevent me from owning a gun? Absolutely. Would it encourage me to be on some sort of ‘watch’ list? Maybe.
I dunno . . . the jury is out. I like the idea of having one card to present when I make a Medicare claim or visit Centrelink. I like the idea of one login and password for everything, or one PIN for all but . . .
Your thoughts?
Centrelink Benefits (social security) card
Medicare (health card)
DIMIA (Immigration)
Commonwealth Senior’s Health Card
Seniors Card
Tax File Number and information
Birth, Deaths and Marriages information
Contact details.
These agencies already speak to each other without us being aware. For example, when ClareBear was at university she qualified for a Student Allowance of $280 per fortnight. This is payable even when overseas but income must be reported on a monthly basis. Since she was gone for longer than a month, I was ‘boned’ up on how to report her income in her absence. I received a letter from Centrelink saying that because she was out of the country, she did not need to report her income. They knew she was overseas because DIMIA (Department of Immigration, Multicultural and Indigenous Affairs) had linked into their systems when they granted her exit visa.
I claim a Family Tax Benefit. An income based tax rebate for children under 20 who are studying full time. It’s means tested so only a small amount. However, again, Centrelink knows when my chidren have left university. Their systems are tied in with the Department of Education.
My point being that all this information exists, is known and collectible but just not all in one place.
Whilst having this information on a government registry is one thing . . . my reservation is what if this information was ‘easily’ available to private enterprise.
My insurance company for example, cannot access these records without my permission or authority. If they could access my medical records, might they reconsider my suitability for Trauma, Income Protection and or Life Insurance? I already have to declare if I have AIDS, a smoker, diabetic, epileptic or any of a number of conditions. What if they found out I carried some obscure gene that made me depressed . . . would I be a suicide risk and therefore not covered, or if I had suffered depression or had some genetic disorder . . . would they still insure me?
I’ve always been a proponent of “nothing to hide . . .nothing to fear”. Until I heard Brian mention that even a traffic offence could cause problems with gun licensing should you wish to become a sports shooter . . . I hadn’t thought of that. Imagine if employers had access to your ciminal record, offences minor or otherwise, which currently, thanks to very stringent Privacy Laws only have to be declared in very specific areas such as child care or the care of other vulnerable people.
When I register my car I can get the mechanic to award a pink roadworthy certificate and forward it electronically to the Roads and Traffic Authority. Then I can pay my compulsary third party online and that is forwarded electronically to the RTA, then all that information is ready when I go online to pay my registration (road tax). This means that the RTA has records from my mechanic about my car, it's age, condition etc. and contact details, plus details from my insurance company who have everything on me from past infringements and claims to all my personal details and credit card information.
I can order everything from health insurance, Mothers Day gifts to my favourite perfume, horse feed . . .you name it. . . via the internet. Straight away they have my contact details, credit card details (which is why I always use a card with a low limit so that if I'm fleeced, it won't hurt as much.) This happens now so why am I so concerned about privacy.
Then there are the direct debits that link into my bank account - insurance, charitable donations, electricity bill, etc. They know what I consume, when I consume it and how I pay for it.
So, food for thought. I’m vassilating between the pros and cons here. Is privacy protectable? Should I fear having everything about me bandied across the universe? I’m a good girl I am, so why should I be worried? I was arrested once for protesting at uni but no charges laid . . but what if they had been . . . would that have prevented me from getting one of the best jobs I ever had with the National Exchange of Police Information? You betcha. Criminal history checks were part of the employment criteria. Would they prevent me from owning a gun? Absolutely. Would it encourage me to be on some sort of ‘watch’ list? Maybe.
I dunno . . . the jury is out. I like the idea of having one card to present when I make a Medicare claim or visit Centrelink. I like the idea of one login and password for everything, or one PIN for all but . . .
Your thoughts?
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
FIGJAM
Our IT Boffin has resigned. Bound to happen Gen Y with $ in his eyes, baby at home, non-working girlfriend and easily bored, plus we pay him peanuts.
He’s been good technically but unmotivated a chronic absentee and no enthusiasm. Maybe it’s my management style! So the powers that be have decided that since he spend half his week sick and the other half exploring cheats for dungeons and dragons, we’re not going to replace him. We’ll secure an external contractor to do the tricky stuff and all the other IT bits will be divvied up amongst, you guessed it . . . admin staff. . . .of which I am now one!
Herein lies the rub:
Advisers - advise clients, they press the flesh, kiss babies, present scenarios and take a few notes. They get invited to seminars in fabulous locations and after the presentations eat fine food, drink fine wine and have fun . . .with their partners no less!
ParaPlanners - do the technical stuff, creating strategies that will fulfil client’s lifestyle needs and goals. They’re the ‘brains’ behind the outfit but still get a few perks, fund manager luncheons and don’t have to answer phones or do anything clerical. They don’t even have to know how to fix a footer!
Fund Administrators – just administer self managed super funds and crunch numbers. They’re the beavers of the outfit. Heads down, bums up. In at 8:30, gone at 5:00 and an hour for lunch.
The Rest – do everything else. Now this is NOT sour grapes, it’s the absolute truth, we are the penultimate multi-taskers – no coincidence that we are all women by the way.
We do everything from keeping the kitchenette clean to complex correspondence, workload monitoring, implementation of client investments and service level agreements, web logins and passwords, database maintenance, diary management, facilities management, lease and license maintenance, client hospitality, fielding phone calls (apparently Advisers and ParaPlanners will spontaneously combust if their calls aren’t screened). I’ve bitched about this before, this assumption that we don’t have enough to do or that we can ‘capture’ tasks that are left over from a vacant position or that we can ‘adapt with the times’ and ‘cope with change’. Now we are to learn how to do backup and restores, automatic downloads into industry specific software, coding of templates, IT troubleshooting and PC audits . Crikey folks, we’re good but . . .
Gawd, I'm such a whinger this week.
He’s been good technically but unmotivated a chronic absentee and no enthusiasm. Maybe it’s my management style! So the powers that be have decided that since he spend half his week sick and the other half exploring cheats for dungeons and dragons, we’re not going to replace him. We’ll secure an external contractor to do the tricky stuff and all the other IT bits will be divvied up amongst, you guessed it . . . admin staff. . . .of which I am now one!
Herein lies the rub:
Advisers - advise clients, they press the flesh, kiss babies, present scenarios and take a few notes. They get invited to seminars in fabulous locations and after the presentations eat fine food, drink fine wine and have fun . . .with their partners no less!
ParaPlanners - do the technical stuff, creating strategies that will fulfil client’s lifestyle needs and goals. They’re the ‘brains’ behind the outfit but still get a few perks, fund manager luncheons and don’t have to answer phones or do anything clerical. They don’t even have to know how to fix a footer!
Fund Administrators – just administer self managed super funds and crunch numbers. They’re the beavers of the outfit. Heads down, bums up. In at 8:30, gone at 5:00 and an hour for lunch.
The Rest – do everything else. Now this is NOT sour grapes, it’s the absolute truth, we are the penultimate multi-taskers – no coincidence that we are all women by the way.
We do everything from keeping the kitchenette clean to complex correspondence, workload monitoring, implementation of client investments and service level agreements, web logins and passwords, database maintenance, diary management, facilities management, lease and license maintenance, client hospitality, fielding phone calls (apparently Advisers and ParaPlanners will spontaneously combust if their calls aren’t screened). I’ve bitched about this before, this assumption that we don’t have enough to do or that we can ‘capture’ tasks that are left over from a vacant position or that we can ‘adapt with the times’ and ‘cope with change’. Now we are to learn how to do backup and restores, automatic downloads into industry specific software, coding of templates, IT troubleshooting and PC audits . Crikey folks, we’re good but . . .
Gawd, I'm such a whinger this week.
Clothes Maketh the Woman (apparently)
There was a frost this morning and where I live in ‘Brigadoon’, it was very chilly on the lilly. So, this morning, I broke out the grey suit as a jacket was definitely on the Agenda. The same trousers and pale pink T-shirt I’ve worn to work hundreds of times but this time with the addition of a tailored jacket. Apparently, it makes all the difference.
My colleagues have asked whether I’m going for a job interview, have an important meeting or even lost weight (liked that one!). As a very casual workplace, I’m generally the T-shirt and trouser girl or occasionaly a collared shirt or sweater but always matched with pants and flats. So there you go gals . . .want to get compliments without fishing . . . wear a suit! Gotta say, it works for the blokes as well.
My colleagues have asked whether I’m going for a job interview, have an important meeting or even lost weight (liked that one!). As a very casual workplace, I’m generally the T-shirt and trouser girl or occasionaly a collared shirt or sweater but always matched with pants and flats. So there you go gals . . .want to get compliments without fishing . . . wear a suit! Gotta say, it works for the blokes as well.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)