Poo the Flu

This horse flu thing isn't a joke any more. It doesn't kill horses unless they get a severe infection but it's very, very contagious so needs to be contained and until recently, we've been a flu free country so nobody vaccinates against it. The saga all began, when a Hong Kong stallion was released from quarantine too early and spread it through a major riding facility in Sydney's city centre. He then was transported up country and affected a few Warmblood mares but by then it was too late. Everyone with whom he had come in contact managed to spread the disease. It spread to Randwick Racecourse and the Spring Carnival was halted affecting not just the bookies, strappers, stable hands - many of whom are casual workers and are now laid off but also the affiliated industries . . . trucking, feed suppliers, caterers, ticket sales, fashion designers, milliners. It stuck to suppliers, vets, horsey handlers and spread to Hawkesbury Racecourse and a number of spring Gymkhanas - big this time of year.

Well even that didn't bother me too much but now I'm becoming a spoilt NIMBY. It's affecting my local Equine vet who has only 2 clean vets (they don't treat flu cases). The rest are 'dirty vets' and I'll bet my lovely Douggie or the spunky Chris Clark are dirty vets. Douggie has a body like Adonis and a Scottish accent to match. He's enough to make me swoon. He chats on and on whilst sticking his fingers in places that no man should ever have to go (on the horse . . lift your game!) Chris is the surfer type - easy on the eye and a smile that admonishes the sins of the world. You watch, I'll get that pretty little blonde from Noosa who's very charming but not at all droolworthy unless you're a young bloke - does nothing for me whatsoever.

Then there's the feed guys who delivered yesterday but said due to quarantine, they're not allowed on the premises so we had to lug bales of hay and sacks of HiGain Senior and Chaff up to the shed. Bastards. I'd have lent them a bottle of Dettol to deliver.

Then to add insult to injury . . .I hear that Il Diablo is bringing his dogs to the APEC meeting . . What the? Does he need a foot warmer now that the wifey poo has decided it's just too dangerous in Sydney with all those crocs in the sewers, sharks in the harbour and funnel webs between the sheets? Normal people have to wait 3 months before their pets are allowed out of quarantine.

Just goes to show, if youre an asshole you can get away with anything . . .

George Bush dumps John Howard as lapdog.

It Get's Earlier Every Year

Did you know that Christmas is coming? . . . Yep, it's the day after Father’s Day in Australia and, just like Hot Cross Buns predictably go on sale on Boxing day - already the Christmas displays are going up in the shopping centres. Not quite the full caroling malarky just yet but the halls are being decked with banners and display cabinets are in place. I guarantee that by the end of the week there’ll be bells a jinglin’ and tinsel a tingelin’ all through Castle Towers shopping centre and it’s only the 3rd of September . . . and I thought it was Il Diablo coming to town . . apparently, it’s Santa Clause - just hope he doesn't get shot down as I put my Christmas Tree up!

Fatherless Day

Today, Sunday 2nd September is Father's day in the land of oz. Most of it has been spent in the garden. DrummerBoy came back from his house sitting to mow and the place looks green, trim and sunny. I whipper snipped and poisoned the weeds and made the pool sparkle. All in all, a great day to spend the late afternoon sitting in our freshly mown environs, enjoying the sunset and reflecting.

Sadly, none of us have fathers. DrummerBoy and ClareBear's passed before they even had time to know him. And mine died five years ago this coming 6th October. I don't visit their graves. I don't want to remember them like that and I don't think they would want to be remembered that way. I know CastleBrook Lawn Cemetery will be scattered with floral tributes and sad families today but I want to sit in 'his' garden and drink his health . . because now, he is enjoying good health and happy times . . . or so I like to believe.

One of the last conversations I had with my father was while I was massaging his frail hands. He was in the late stages of metastatic liver cancer and fading fast. We discussed what tales those square "Irish Mitts" could tell about his 73 years on this earth.

As tiny hands many years go, they held the handle bars of a bicycle when he would reluctantly deliver bread from the family bakery. They held pieces of shrapnel, traded like swap cards as childhood trophies during the Blitz.

They weilded a mighty lacrosse stick during his years at Grammar School and turned the pages of chemistry and textile texts during his years at University.

These tired, and rough old hands once clasped the hands of another, his one and only love, our mum. They have wrapped his four children and seven grandchildren in their embrace and occasionally left their imprint on a few deserving backsides. They rested assertively on boardroom tables, laboured in five gardens, pulled thousands of weeds, repaired metres of fence and pruned tonnes of hedgerows.

They have slapped the kitchen table in heated discussion and firmly shaken the hands of friends and acquaintances. They made toboggans and assembled bicycles even led reluctant horses to pony club.

Dad's hands had masterfully guided his favourite Waterman Pen through thousands of Herald crosswords and fumbled clumsily with a computer keyboard. They have firmly gripped many a glass of scotch and wine, even whilst he dozed in front of the TV they never fell from his vice like grip.

They have gently clasped a golf club and driven a hole in one and clutched the odd trophy. They reached long and often into the lolly tin, plucking a handful for his grandchildren, and long and often into his deep pockets to subsidise his own children's mad exploits.

With these same hands, he consoled us through our personal trials, applauded our achievements, celebrated our milestones and softly pushed us forward. They were the hands of a gentle giant, a loving husband, dad and grandpa and I miss their touch.

And to all the dads today:

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

and . . .as Great Grandad Patrick used to say . . . may you live as long as you want and never want as long as you live . . . Happy Father's Day!

You know it's spring when . . .

. . . a little native Grey Minor Bird builds a dog hair nest in your impatiens hanging basket. This little lady has been sitting on two brown speckled eggs for over a week now . . right outside ClareBear's bedroom. Needless to say, the hanging baskets haven't been watered . . the price I pay to have this so up close and personal.

Friday Is Junk Food

We are inundated with large malls and shopping centres . MacDonalds, KFC, Subway and El Turko but close to home is a little enclave of shops. The Comito Centre - a Korean Chemist. A South African butcher who sells rabbits (who eats rabbits these days?) and Biltong. A liquor store - we dont sell liquor in supermarkets - a gourmet cake shop and a little grubby Welcome Mart run by a grumpy Yorkshireman but I can get French green peppercorns there and Branston Pickle which makes a cheese sandwich complete.

One of the notable shops is a Greek Takeaway. They sell Battered Savs, a sausage in fish batter. Dim Sims which bare no resemblence to their Chinese cousins. Scallops - potato slivers in batter and Prawn Cutlets. Hamburgers with 'the lot' which are not complee without beetroot. Their piece de resistance - fish 'n chips. Real potato chips chiselled from real potatoes, BBQ chicken with the best Coleslaw and Gravy you' ve ever tasted and the best shark in batter.

I dropped into the grubby Welcome Mart today and bought peppercorns but the smell from that Takeaway Store . . . about 11 people were queued outside slowly walking toward their cars with newspaper wrapped packages of savoury smelling fish and chips. I resisted and now have to settle for vegemite on toast for Friday night nibbly bits, I'm mightily pissed. It took me back to day trips to eat at Harry Ramsden's. Now that's a memory from the vault. I wish we had a Doyles in Kellyville. I want fish cocktails and chips with BBQ and Tartare sauce, a butty, vinegar and a cuppa tea.! I have to go, my toast is burning and my champagne is getting flat. (as if!)

And you know you want it!

Emerging Grey is the New Blonde

I don’t know much about cars. That’s boy stuff. Today I was behind a rather sleek looking, black Jag at the traffic lights. I was very impressed that Jaguar had decided to name their model after Michael Stype from REM - a liberal and progressive decision. Then someone corrected my blonde moment and told me it was an S-TYPE!

A guy at work confessed (and yes he is Irish) that he once stood on a station platform and asked the conductor what time the 12:30 train was due. The words had left his mouth before he realised how stupid it sounded. (In his defense, it was 12:40 at the time but it just sounded so blonde!)

ClareBear came home extremely hungover on Thursday morning after a blokes night with Queen Bea, had a quick shower, changed for work then scrambled around trying to find her car keys. Again, the blonde moment “Where did you lose them?” sprouted from my idiotic mouth, long before I engaged my brain. Obviously if she knew where she’d lost them they would be found. They were recovered still sitting in the ignition.

I once phoned a friend on their landline and asked them “Where are you now?”. Automatic response from using my mobile too much.

It’s Friday . . . gimme a break! Does emerging grey count as blonde?

Lockdown for a Lunatic

This is getting out of hand. Four more days and Il Diablo arrives on our fair, and until very recently anonymous, shores for the APEC meeting which begins on 7th September. The city has gone into lockdown with special event road closures, Friday being a public holiday to deter people from entering the city, FA18 Fighter Jets, armed Black Hawk Helicopers, vehicle inspections and the 10 foot wall enclosing half the city – Christ we even bought a water cannon so that the protesters can enjoy being swept of their feet by an unprecedented pressure hose. All for one idiotic man that just can’t keep his mouth shut. Not content now with fucking up Afghanistan and Iraq he’s launching into the Iranians.


All this fuss for the man who said

"I'm the commander — see, I don't need to explain — I do not need to explain why I say things. That's the interesting thing about being president."

"I saw a poll that said the right track/wrong track in Iraq was better than here in America. It's pretty darn strong. I mean, the people see a better future."

"I'm also not very analytical. You know I don't spend a lot of time thinking about myself, about why I do things."

"Iraq is a very important part of securing the homeland, and it's a very important part of helping change the Middle East into a part of the world that will not serve as a threat to the civilized world, to people like -- or to the developed world, to people like -- in the United States."

"The solution to Iraq -- an Iraq that can govern itself, sustain itself and defend itself -- is more than a military mission. Precisely the reason why I sent more troops into Baghdad."

Any luck he’ll catch Horse Flu while he’s here and drop dead!

Arky Rocks

This one's for Crispy, Arkenstone, Kahlerisms, . . . I met this kid through a helpdesk. He supported the industry software that we once used for our financial planning, VisiPlan. He was serious, helpful, followed-through . . .the sort of person you could rely on to resolve your problems which in my case were often banal . . three times and you're out with passwords or just not reading the latest release notes.

We started chatting along with problem solving. Then sending funny emails. Then every Friday I had to do a backup which rendered all software on my PC useless other than MSN. He was on the Helldesk and we began chatting. We share a love of Star Wars, Blues Brothers, Clerks and I had to set him straight on a couple of occasions on Metallica. We have a lot of differences. He's a geek. Totally. Has his own web server, chats with fellow ancient Mercedes owners, is or was a World of Warcraft gamer . . makes multi-layered jelly with pineapple chunks. But for some obscure reasons we became the first . . yes the very first . . online friends - from my side anyway! Long before blogging or Skype or Facebook.

Last year, he was working in Sydney training other geeks and made the brave move of coming over for dinner to meet. He's lovely. After the first uncomfortable hug and 'would you like a beer' we sat for hours, drinking, talking, eating prawns. He showed off his camera and expounded his love of KISS and Sci-Fi. He asked the hard emotional questions and by the time his taxi came, the night had seemed all too short.

He's going through some tough times with family illness but tonight, the night of a spectacular lunar eclipse, I spoke to him, and the girl that loves him and we had a really nice time negotiating through MSN, Skype and finally a call between quick sojourns outside to look at the tangerine coloured moon.

Yep it was ecliptical in more ways than one. I really, really like this kid. We've kept in touch over 3 years now that's longeivity for a 25 year old. He's somber, unemotional, technical, brave, sometimes dark, often jovial in a geeky kind of way but when there's a crisis of family, love, work, he talks to me. He's a good boy. Good morals, well educated, sweet and he has a lovely girlfriend who I also 'met' via licensing of industry software but spoke to for the first time tonight. Chris, you are special and I'm very lucky to have met you. I wish you well and you're in for some rough times ahead. I hope I can be the friend you have when you're not having a friend and that we can meet up again occasionally because you have something endearing about you and we share an affection for Star Wars, even in Lego form (although I can't claim to being the constructor of Darth Vader, that honour goes to Drummer Boy), Mac computers, cats and getting pissed! He's a talented photographer, she's a fabulous portraitist (althoug I suspect she doesn't really know how good she is) and thankfully, they live in Melbourne so occasional meetings are not off the cards. Good luck to you kiddos and keep in touch. It has been my pleasure to have 'met' you both. And you know, for a moment, it was really nice to know that you were looking at the same orange eclipse as me! Far away as we are, this weird event connected us. (Ok I'm going to collapse in a romantic pool of green cheese right now)

Orange moon, you saw me standing alone . . withought a love of my own .. .

In the Poo

I get on with BabyBro, he’s a decent enough chap and my next door neighbour. Bit moody - but I blame that on a bout of viral meningitis in his 20’s – screwed with his brain and now he sees everything in black and white. Decisions for him are easy . . . he’s right, I’m wrong, he’s good everyone else is rubbishl, he knows the truth . . .I know shit . . . And that’s sort of what this post is about.I had noticed that his septic tank has been leaking instead of pumping waste from his house into the main Envirocycle which both houses share.

I mentioned the poo situation to him (via email since it’s winter and due to sport there are no conversations between us beyond “G’day” as we pass each other in the carport).

Little wonder then that he doesn’t seem to notice a disaster about to happen. I on the other hand, notice everything due to my Saturday maintenance duties.

There is a pump in this tank that ensures its foul contents are pumped into a rather sophisticated environmentally-sound, treatment system. The ‘grey’ water it finally filters and produces is then sprinkled on the front lawn. It’s obvious his pump is not working.

So this morning, I get a panicked phone call . . it’s ‘urgent’ says our receptionist:

BB: “Where does this septic pump to?”

Me: “Into the Envirocyle”

BB: “No it doesn’t, I have Paul the Envirocycle man with me and he says there’s only one inlet”

Me: That’s because there’s a junction for the pipes underneath the driveway where your waste joins mine in a happy marriage and honeymoon towards bacterial cleansing and grey-water recycling.”

BB: *disbelieving tone* “Who did your plumbing when you built the house”

Me: “ThePlumber”

BB: “Well that explains it. He did a dodgy job and now there’s sewage pumping God knows where!”

Me: “Yes we do know where . . into the envirocycle . . .”

BB” Can’t be Paul says there’s only one inlet pipe. Where does the septic pump to? *we have come full circle without resolution*

See where I’m going with this . . . he took the word of Paul the EnviroMan (who I have known for many, many years). He checks aeration and chlorine. Paul is a nice man. He has a little kit of water testing thingamies and puts clean chlorine blocks in the appropriate cells. He checks water turbidity and the aerator then leaves me a nice little report and a bill for $75 – he is not a Poomaster or a Plumber, he doesn't even clean greastraps and septic tanks. I was there when the pipes were laid. I know exactly where his waste is going when there’s a normally functioning pump!

So, I hung up with the shits and went back to work and left the two of them cogitating and prognosticating on how so much poo could easily traverse a 100mm diameter pipe. I don’t know how thick his cables are but mine would certainly have no trouble reaching their destination!

What really gets me is how can you not ‘notice’ poo and wee and washing water trickling down your garden? How can you not notice that there is water seeping through the brickwork outside your kitchen until finally the hose on the dishwasher snaps and all hell breaks loose? How can you not notice that your dog is deaf until one day your niece backs over him because he can’t hear the oncoming car?

Is it a boy thing? Like not being able to find matching socks or your favourite jumper despite the fact that both are staring you in the face?

Little Drummer Boy

No peram-peram-pum for my lad! Busy busy day today so no time for a proper post so have resorted to blatant plug for Aktor - DrummerBoy's band. Recorded with a VCR at the Annandale Pub so it's not the best sound quality but aint they cute? Beat the crappoodle out of those tom toms baby boy!

Time at War



Far From Here



Bless their little rockin' socks.

This Little Piggy . . .

. . . went to market. Parklea Market actually. There's growing interest in 'growers markets' where you can buy fabulous home grown, home made, organic, fresh and pesticide free. They're trendy and the sort of events that are held locally once a month. If you're late, you miss out on the fresh home baked bread, home cured bacon and organic tomatoes which taste completely different to the commercial stuff. These markets attract the middle class, the alternative, the vegetarians and those who just love to tell you that the olive bread they bought is much better than that produced by Baker's Delight (actually it tastes exactly the same) but there's kudos in going to a growers market.

Then there are the 'craft' markets. These vary widely in the quality of their goods. You can buy everything from fantastic quality wooden toys (that children incidentally never like to play with) down to those awful floral handtowells with crocheted edges, or toilet roll and tissue box covers. I'm not a fan of these as much of their merchandise is either over priced because it's 'hand made' or simply so gauche that you wouldn't be seen dead sitting on a loo with a pale green knitted toilet seat cover and matching mat.

Then there's the carnival of carnies. The mother of them all. The copycat King . . .the large permanent rented-stall and undercover markets. In Sydney we have three. Paddies at Flemington which during the week is a genuine wholesale market and great for flowers and veg but during the weekend it turns into one of those copycat T shirt, mobile phone cover, tiger rugged, cheap perfume 'what the hell is that toy' and 'who the fuck would use one of those' markets. There's another Paddies in the city, same vein but has a direct factory outlet above it which is great value if you're a size 8 and don't mind last year's fashion. Then there's our closest. Parklea Market.

Just around the corner, on the site of an old drive-in movie theatre looms this enormous white colourbond building. Around the perimeter is carpark and within, the most amazing (not in a good way) conglomeration of rip offs and bric-a-brac. In this den of eniquity you can have a Chinese massage if you don't mind being a tad public (16 at a time). You can have your Tarot or fortune read . . . Eat the worst of junk food, fill the kids with fairy floss and barter with Chinese and Arabic store holders who smell as if their entire diet comprised garlic cloves.

It's frequented by the choicest of Sydney's West and here my snoberry kicks in. The working class, Tongans and Maori, Lebanese and the Caucasian poor. The thing is, these people aren't wealthy, far from it, but they spend so much money on frippery and lounge around the foul smelling place eating dagwood dogs and kebabs. Again, the fruit and veg is cheap, fresh and good quality but any place that has pets and cheese in the same aisle?

Happy children wonder out of the darkness with pink twirly things and glo-sticks or barking clockwork puppies on wheels when they could probably do with a few new books or a little tutoring in maths

So how did I find myself there? . . .I went with ClareBear because there's a guy who has a stall who does laser and vinyl prints on T shirts and she wants a one-off as a thank you to her soccer coach. It's close and cheap but man what an experience. Although I'm slamming it here, it is a good place to buy say, cane laundry baskets, essential oils and incense or pet supplies but I want to know who buys:

• Large synthetic rugs with pictures of Elvis on them
• Yoda bongs
• Copycat perfume
• Rubber breasts with silicone filling (I kid you not!)
  
• Chinese lace tablecloths
• Plastic clogs
• Replica African artifacts (plaster Giraffe and Elephant legs and Tutenkhamun heads)
• A plaster wall hanging of the Virgin Mary and John the Baptist
• Bright pink and blue mother of pearl door streamers
• Dream catchers (made in China of course)

Seriously, in 20 minutes I saw people buying this stuff.
The worst part . . . I have to go back today because the printing man couldn't read the artwork file we gave him . . . . I think I'll just drive around while Clare goes in . . . This little piggy won't be going to market any time soon.

What Lies Beneath

Now I want you to dim the lights, get comfortable, play a little 'mood' music cos today, we're detting down and dirty. Yep, we're talking about what lies beneath. Dirty linen, dark secrets . . .we're going into the saucy world of lingerie and underwear.

There seems to be a plethora of underwear ads on tv at the moment. Maybe 'cos the weather's getting steamier here and the gear is coming off. What hit me most besides the fabulously muscled young men posing in Holeproof underdaks is the 'science' behind knickers and bras.
There are men's boxers which are smell resistant, fitted trunks that move with you due to some new elastane technology. Of course we ladies have been aware of 'no knickers' seamless jobs and the push up bra for years. I just had this image of white coated lab rats discussing the next technological improvement to undewear. I know DrummerBoy would like a pair of boxers that keep his ganoolies in one place (judging by the amount of readjustment they seem to suffer). ClareBear would like a bra that gives her cleavage without the padding and I'd like one that keeps them off my knees.

There's now underwear that monitors your heart and edible underwear for cosmonauts so they can 'eat their shorts' in space, there's self-cleaning undies that can go a week without washing and sustainable underwear made from, wait for it, pine clippings!

Calvin Klein and other manufacturers have advanced the science of underwear technology with the use of microfibers for moisture management and cooling. We all know what happens when your bollocks overheat! And one enterprising Masters student has invented underwear with 'intimate controllers' so that she can play electronic games in her undies! Intimate Controllers is a set of sensors embedded in underwear that direct the action on a video game. Rather than sit separately on the couch and jam fingers against small plastic buttons, players touch each other to control the game

Now before you make assumptions that I'm totally perverted (I'm not, the thought just struck me while I was making my second cup of tea), despite the science behind what lies beneath the powers that be still can't invent a pair of knickers that fit so well, you don't have to tweak them every time you stand up! There, I think that's enough said on the subject.

Happy Birfdie Thommo!

Today is my best friend’s birthday. I usually forget it but thanks to the diary function in Outlook, I am now able to put a recurring meeting in so that I don’t. We met in year 10 at school. I’d been at Castle Hill High for 12 months, she had just arrived from Pommieland. Her uniform was uncoolly long whilst ours was all tucked up and short bearing more than our 4 inches above the knee. She was well groomed and had perfectly clean shoes and white socks whilst we rebelled against the uniform and insisted on wearing Jesus sandals with no socks. This was after all the government school system. Straight out of Watford Grammar, she was tall, pretty, elegant with long straight black hair. Slim, intelligent and soon became very popular.

We caught the same bus so I used to trail behind her even though we disembarked from the same stop. She wasn’t cool. (neither was I but I was a ‘try-hard’). Eventually, this pilgrimage up Buckingham Road just seemed too silly and so we started talking on the bus, then gasbagging up the hill. Within weeks we were friends and now 30 years later she’s been there through thick and thin. She has led a charmed life. Married her childhood sweetheart (now my boss), had two beautiful children after incident free pregnancies, bought her house at the right time, sold it again at the right time. Made a lot of money – simply good timing – an opportunity presented itself and TheBoss took advantage, not really knowing how successful his venture would be. They are blessed. And I would be lying if I didn’t feel a little envious.

We went to uni together, we married two friends, we lived within 500metres of each other, we had our children within 12 weeks of each other . . .we played together, travelled together, danced together . . .I was her bridesmaid, she was mine . . . we attended funerals together.

She is so different to me. Physically, she’s tall and thin, straight hair, straight teeth. I’m tall and tubby with masses of mad curls that refuse to be tamed. She’s conservative in her politics and taste. I’m a ratbag liberal and don’t care what I look like. She’s a diplomat and smiles through a crisis. I call a spade a fucking shovel can argue the leg off a chair. She likes Sting and Eric Clapton, George Benson and Van Morrison. I like Gautier and Bloc Party, Led Zeppelin and Frank Zappa. She drinks Red, I drink White. She’s frugal with her money, I’m a spendthrift. She is an avid reader and never writes, I’ll write my socks off but rarely read. She has an eye for figures and detail – I sweep my broad brushstrokes across everything I do and stuff the spelling mistakes. She keeps in touch, I’m incredible at not returning that phone call. I guess we’re proof that opposites attract either that or the things we agree upon are what bind us:

• We both have a caring nature
• We are both highly principled
• We are both environmentalists
• We share and value a good education
• We had a loving upbringing that has imprinted on our psyche
• We are insistent on courtesy and treating others as we like to be treated
• We have a good sense of humour
• We have felt and can give great love
• We are always there for each other
• We both have difficult brothers
  
• We like Hawks Nest Thai Green Curry Pies and Chocolate Paddle Pops

She introduced me to Ray and many of my closest friends. She’s stuck by me through desperation and joy and all the places in between despite not really understanding where I’m coming from much of the time (it’s hard to empathise when your life is perfection) but she’s been my single best friend, my confidant, my rock, my whipping girl, my mentor, my sister, my consoler and my confessor. I love her very much and she forgives my lack of focus on the ‘ceremony’ of Birthdays. As usual I forgot to buy her a birthday card . . .she will not forget to by me one when my turn comes . . . I did buy her lunch!

I Used to Think There Was No Such Thing as A Stupid Question

I have been tortured by a cantankerous internet today. A WAN Cable error on our Linksys router (like I have a clue what that means) has meant incoming emails were received but nothing was sent and all knowledge remained floating out there in the ether, ethereal as ever and unaware of our sudden ostracism from the world at large. It slipped in and out of consciousness throughout the day and I received the odd email from ClareBear and managed to get a virtual card out to birthday boy and a slightly failed “Go To Assist” with a software administrator that was quite entertaining.

What really struck me was the attitudinal dependency of the entire office upon this ubiquitous and fragile medium, without which all life as we know it ceases to exist apparently. To add insult to injury, this dodgy connection was somehow attributable to me as the IT Guru (their name not mine). Since the departure of our full time IT Administrator, who our powers that be did not see fit to replace, I have become the whipping girl for all things malfunctioning that relate remotely to Information Technology. And I work for people who think that fax machines and printer drums are also information technology. In fact one thinks that Excel is something only a Network Administrator can fathom – hence his adoration of our Excel specialist who is the biggest wanker on the face of the planet but that’s another story.

Ok a few of the banalities I’ve had to put up with:

“The internet doesn’t work . . .”
No kidding, I just sent you an internal email saying that you fucking rocket scientist
“I can’t save this document in COIN . . .”
Really, that’s because you don’t have editing permission you shit-kicker
“I can’t login to the boardroom computer . . . “
Locked ourself out again have we due to a forgotten password, then abused the receptionist and the IT misfit as if it’s their fault you forgetful fool
“My VPN doesn’t work” That’s because you’re on your work computer, not logging in remotely
“Will you email me when the server’s back up please” – umm . . . You’ll have logged out so that I can restart the server so you won’t be able to read my email.

We knew we’d be reconnected at some stage during the day but the response of “Oh can we get an early mark” or “well what are we supposed to do now?” And from the principals of the company “Just how long is this going to take . . .” like I can somehow 'will' the World Wide Web to perform on cue. One principal even questionned the suitability of our IT Outsourcer because he didn’t lob on-site the minute I called him about what is probably an external ISP issue.

Crispy, TheBenchwarmer, Brianf – I wouldn’t have your IT client liaison jobs for quids. Clients are thankless, stupid and have unrealistic expectations of the abilities of IT problem solvers . . . you are all saints in my book!

And another thing . . what is it about some person, and we all know who he is, taking the last clean spoon and not washing it!

Oh and on a completely different note, Brianf has a birthday today (23rd August). So go visit and wish him well. He doesn’t post much these days because being your typical male, multi-tasking isn’t his strong point and he's too busy eating veal and conning chefs out of their skilets. Plus his rather demanding job sees him travelling during the week and gives him the perfect excuse to be a lazy ass. Happy b’day Bri. Have a blast!

The Dating Game

Today I had lunch with TheBenchwarmer. So named because sometimes he feels he meets women, gives them his best and then they move on to share their new found knowledge and experience with someone else . . . he’s back on the bench.

And I don’t know why because he’s a great guy and a good catch for the right girl. He’s socially active, well travelled, popular. He’s intense, impulsive, romantic a little smothering. Delightful, intelligent, chatty, well read, nice looking, well groomed, cuddly, spontaneous, generous, loyal, independent, financially viable . . . so where’s Mrs Right for my big warm teddy bear? His latest fling (although he’d call it obsessive love) has just come to a sad and sorry end.

It’s hard for single men no matter what their age. Making the first move and maintaining the momentum with women is no mean feat. Rejection is terrifying and a rude rebuttal absolutely soul-crushing and that’s before they meet the family and have their language and manners scrutinised by 'she who must be obeyed'. It’s no wonder so many singles are resorting to chat rooms or speed dating for initial introductions. They’re painless by comparison

Picking up isn’t easy but boys, here’s a hot tip. Just hang off a bar or in a coffee shop, make eye contact, pass a little smile and if she’s interested, let her come over and talk to you. When she does (and she will if you're patient) don’t use cheesey chat lines, show genuine interest and match her mood (don’t giggle when she’s telling you her dog died). This technique works for ClareBear and Queen Bea all the time – both agree their most successful dates are men they’ve actually approached after ‘reading the signs’. You don’t have to embarrass yourself, ask anyone to wiggle with you on the dance floor, buy them expensive drinks. Just sit, look nice, smell nice and smile. Easy peasy. Now let me know your results. Ok so you’ve got that nailed . . .

Keeping it going isn’t that easy either. You have to maintain all the flattery, lavish affection, attention, money and not necessarily asking for anything in return but hope it might come, then – Just when you thought it's all going really well – the best mate moves in or she decides that it’s not quite the relationship she wanted or she’s not ready to get serious or she’s still a little in love with her ex . . .

But once you’ve got a good one, just think about what women want. They want to be happy – just like you but have a different way of showing it. If you learn their language, listen when you’d rather speak, hug instead of just walking away, tell the truth till it hurts, be a man she can depend on and love her like you love yourself. You’ll no longer ask what women want, they’ll be asking you what you want and give it to you. So, you want to know what a woman wants? It’s not difficult all you have to do is to be:

A friend, a companion, a lover, a brother, a father, a sister, a master, a chef, an electrician, a carpenter, a plumber, a carpenter, a mechanic, a decorator, a stylist, a psychologist, a gynecologist, an exterminater, a good listener, an organiser, clean, sympathetic, athletic, warm, humerous, attentive, creative, tender, strong, understanding, tolerant, prudent, ambitious, capable, courageous, dependable, passionate, complementary, up for retail therapy, honest, rich, unstressed, faithful, attentive and remember birthdays and anniversaries.

Making men happier is even easier:

Give him a little ‘alone’ time, don’t nag, provide regular sex, feed him well and let him have the remote control. (Personally I prefer a dog, they don't drink your beer or generate any washing.)

James Blunt Must Die - Apparently

I am a very broad minded person and I have very diverse taste in music. I’m as comfortable with Barber and Carloff as I am with Who Killed the Prom Queen. At work, we usually listen to Nova or Mix 106FM which play new 'pop' releases and some 70s, 80’s and 90’s stuff – a bit of alternative. Not my stations of choice but respectible enough to play in the workplace without offending clients. Plus the rotations aren’t too frequent so you don’t get Kelly Clarkson screaming in your ear like a wounded banshee.

But at the moment I began to wonder what to post today, the airwaves were wafting with the soft sobs of Lasting Love Dedications or the Sing us a Sloppy Song sessions. The lurve oozing from our little boom box is sparking a finger down the throat gesture at the moment.

I actually had a quick browse on the internet during my lunch hour and found some worst songs of all time, not perhaps the worst but the most annoying or the ones that stay in your head. Sorry if I trigger an unforgettable moment!

MacArthur Park - Richard Harris
I've Never Been To Me - Charlene
Lovin' You - Minnie Riperton
Seasons In The Sun - Terry Jacks
Muskrat Love - Captain and Tenille
You Must Love Me - Madonna
Sometimes When We Touch - Dan Hill
I Am - Said - Neil Diamond
Ebony and Ivory - Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder
Afternoon Delight - Starland Vocal Band (although it was rescued by Will Ferrell in that movie)
Feelings - Morris Albert
Honey - Bobby Goldsboro
Achy Breaky Heart - Billy Ray Cyrus
Disco Duck - Rick Dees
A Horse With No Name - America
My Humps - Black Eyed Peas
Morning Train (9 to 5) - Sheena Easton
You Light Up My Life - Debbie Boone (OSCAR WINNING SONG)
Boogie Oogie Oogie - A Taste of Honey
Shannon - Henry Gross
In the Year 2525 (Exordium and Terminus) - Zager and Evans
I Can't Dance - Genesis
The Candy Man - Sammy Davis jr
Unfaithful - Rihanna
Grillz - Nelly, featuring Paul Wall, Ali & Gipp
Having My Baby - Paul Anka
Ma Belle Amie - The Tee Set
Do That To Me One More Time - Captain and Tenille
Brand New Key - Melanie
Catch My Disease - Ben Lee
Daddy Don't You Walk So Fast - Wayne Newton
I'm A Girl, Not Yet a Woman - Britney Spears
Yes! We Have No Bananas - Billy Jones
Ode To Billie Joe - Bobbi Gentry
Peaches - The Presidents of the United States
Alone Again (Naturally) - Gilbert O'Sullivan
These Boots Are Made For Walking - Jessica Simpson
Escape (The Pina Colada Song) - Rupert Holmes
Can I Touch You... There? - Michael Bolton
Midnight At The Oasis - Maria Muldaur
(Everything I Do) I Do It For You - Bryan Adams
Oh Babe, What Would You Say? - Hurricane Smith
Ring The Alarm - Beyonce
I Am Woman - Helen Reddy
The Only Thing That Looks Good On Me Is You - Bryan Adams (Wow he's got two in the list)
I Will Always Love You - Whitney Houston
I Write The Songs - Barry Manilow
Lady In Red - Chris DeBurgh
Ring The Alarm - Beyonce

You got more?

And just for you, a parody of the song voted in a recent poll as THE MOST IRRITATING EVER - :

Mega Dick

One of my duties as IT Manager (don’t laugh, I have an outsourced expert to do the tricky stuff) is to go through our spam filter in-box each morning and ensure that it hasn’t trapped any legitimate emails and to relegate the nasty ones to the blacklist.

There are a plethora of “I’m lonely tonight, look at my sexy pictures” emails, Cialis and Viagra advertisements, University Degrees without studying, economic opportunities that are just too good to be true - but it’s the penis enlargement ones that really make me laugh. Not for their claims and most certainly not because I’m impressed by a big dick unless he's a tall, tanned, boofy bloke called Richard.

No, what really impresses me is the way they try to ‘target’ the nationality of their audience. The sincere attempt to corner the demographic in various international markets. I’m sure they’re using Babel or something to translate. We end up with this hilarious combination:

For the prim:
Womens always laughed at me and even gentlemans did in the urban WC! Well, now I laugh at them, because I took Megadik for 4 months and now my phallus is excessively best than civil market

For the Americans:
Dames always whizgiggled at me and even youths did in the not private toilet! Well, now I shriek at them, because I took Megadik for 4 months and now my putz is dreadfully longer than national go shopping

Now if I had to write one for the Aussies it would be:

Sheilas used to piss themselves when they saw my poor excuse for a love muscle, even the pooftas in the loos wet themselves laughing. Now I can stick it right up 'em cos I took Megadik for 5 months and me schlongs such a doozie, I have t' strap it t' me inside leg with me bulwhip.

I didn’t realise that so many women were in the habit giggling at their teensy weensy members. I think it would be quite a prank for a hens night bunch to go hanging around the 'gents' poking fun and laughing at at wee willies.

So if the mood takes you, and the opportunity presents itself . . . . have your giggle then remind the poor sods with the diminutive pricks that there is a way to make their phallus "excessively best than civil!"

Can I Piss In Your Pocket?

Hundreds of people posed naked on Switzerland's shrinking Aletsch glacier today for US photographer Spencer Tunick as part of a Greenpeace campaign to raise awareness of global warming. Cripple nipple city and shrinkage central I suppose.

Tunick, perched on a ladder and using a megaphone, ("get yer knickers off!") directed nearly 600 volunteers *ugly exhibitionists* from all over Europe and photographed them on the glacier, which is the largest in the Alps. Later he took pictures of them standing in groups on the mass of ice and lying down. (God forbid . . don't ask what they were doing whilst prone on the ice - making ice angels?) Camera crews were staged at five different points on the glacier to take photographs (perverts). Glaciers are sensitive to climate change and have been receding since the start of the industrial age but the pace of shrinkage has accelerated in recent years (that wasn't the only shrinkage in evidence).

Now pardon me but, the average human body temperature is 98.6 and probably half of these people are inflicted with the flu and probably running about 100 degrees. That to me adds up to roughly 6000 degrees of human buttocks and jugs warming the surface of an otherwise pristine glacier. Probably causing over 10 years worth of melt and leaving barefoot prints down to about six inches in the ice.

The environmental group Greenpeace, which organised the shoot, said the aim was to "establish a symbolic relationship between the vulnerability of the melting glacier and the human body". (Or to help promote the photographer who is renown for shooting nudes all over the world to promote a well known brand of sunglasses)

Greenpeace just quietly have lost the plot. I'm a member of the Australian Conservation Foundation which has a peacful activist and proactive way of dealing with environmental issues. We don't go ramming Japanese whalers or taking sensational photos or throwing animal blood at fur wearers - even though we don't endorse any of these practices. We plant trees, run school educational programs, we lobby government, assist in research, sponsor university grants, attend the whaling commission, and enhance awareness and encourage a sustainable lifestyle without these dramatic and stupid theatrics.

The Aletsch descends around the south side of the Jungfrau mountain in the Upper Rhone Valley. Alpine glaciers have lost about one-third of their length and half their volume over the past 150 years. Well this one has just lost a third of it's volume thanks to the basking of warm buttocks, none of which were particularly attractive to my mind. If you want to photograph 600 people in the bollocks, do it for a sunglasses promotion in Coles car park or for the sake of art but keep their butts of the pristine ice flows. Leave nothing but footprints - made with sustainable spikes - and take nothing but photographs - preferably with your kit on! Where do you think these 600 people pee'd during the 10 hour shoot? I don't even want to think about where they took a dump!
Certainly nobody peed in their pockets!

Nudists choose a variation on the snow angel!

What Value Friendship?

I'm not sure why I'm blogging this other than I need to vocalise my inadequacy. I have a school friend. We were very close from 16 - 25 when we sort of moved our separate ways. She did a year 12 exchange in New York State so started Uni a year later than us which meant we saw less of her after we graduated. We caught up occasionally as kids came along and ran into each other every few years at weddings and anniversaries. We always knew where each other was but didn't socialise too much.

The last time I saw her was at the Piazza in Castle Hill about 4 years ago. Thommo and I were having lunch and in strolled Max. Looking the same as she had in year 12, now a Vice Principal at a local selective high school and doing really well. She's now 50 with an 18 year old and a 13 year old . . . last week another distant school friend called me and told me that Max's partner had mysteriously died in Peru! This particular person was more on a fishing trip than acting out of concern, hoping I could solve the mystery of how he died. She's recently 'found God' and turned into an evangelical do gooder and inevitable busy body and serial gossip. I shan't call her with the truth.

He was a bit of an adventurer. Often took students into the wild and woolly parts of the universe. Alternative - he mowed the lawn in a Samoan skirt and cooked the best Sri Lankan Lamb I've ever tasted. I met him only twice over the past 18 years - a solitary partner who made himself scarce when the girls got going. Sadly, I haven't seen Max since that lunch despite promises to keep in touch. Today, I had to face the music and call her. I felt like a fairweather friend, calling her after all this time just because Olaf had passed. His body is still in Peru and she has the awful task of arranging for his return to Australia - dealing with immigration - the behemoth of beaurocracy that it is as well as dealing with a prolonged grief between his death and the kind of closure that is offered by a funeral. Apparently, there was a gas leak from his tent lamp and this otherwise healthy 55 year old, died in his sleep in the wilds of the Andes. What do you say? How do you soothe someone who has to cope with the death of a partner AND bring his body home. Grief is something I can helpwith but this!

I've experienced loss before and I know that the well-meaning wishes of friends and acquaintances are genuine but I just felt so awful contacting her after all this time . . . at this time. I wish I was just inviting her to lunch or having a friendly catch up. She was grateful I think and when the dust settles, the funeral's over, I'll contact her again. When tragedy strikes, there are many people around to bolster your spirits but 12 months down the track . . . it's a different story. Not that people don't care, they do, but life goes on and there's no time for maudlin over the past. I really appreciate those friends who have stuck by me even though I've been a widow for many, many years . . . but the fair-weather ones . . .the ones that bring loads of support and food to your house between the death and the funeral as if you're incapable of making beans on toast . . . the ones that offer to babysit so you can have some free time (Free time . . you need that like a hole in the head!). The ones who buy the most expensive flowers or pretend to be genuinely concerned, the ones that reminisce about the last 2 years they knew your dear departed. . . they seem to fade into the distance. It's too hard to have 7 people for dinner or a theatre booking for 13 . . that odd number really causes them angst. I'm not saying they don't care because I don't know. But I'm not going to be like that. 12 months down the track, Max will need friends and I'll be there for her but for now . . . she's got enough support. It was one of the most difficult phone calls I've made in ages but I think it was appreciated and it brought this old battle axe to tears but hopefully will lead to a rekindling of a friendship that goes way back to creature features on Saturday night, smoking a joint and eating left over KFC chicken wings. Trips to her family farm in the country and rounding cows up on motor bikes. Languid holidays at Crescent Head where the object of the game was to pash some handsome surfer. Trips to Canberra to visit a mutual friend and welcomes home after long holidays away . . . we have history and hopefully that will be enough to keep her going when the hullaballo dies down. Love you Max. I know you don't read this but I know where you are right now and I wouldn't want to be there again for all the tea in China.

Uneventful But Rewarding

I have nothing today. No angst, no banality, no humour. It was a normal Saturday. Chat with my new best friend on MSN cos Skype was being obstreperous. Had coffee in the sunshine with my sister and watched her feed my horses *got her well trained*. Took the dog for a run. Tested the electric collar since ThePrincess has started forming relationships with the builders up the back again (Chris is very nice . . well muscled, polite and tanned so had a little fantasy to boot!) Did more washing than a family of three should ever generate. Cleaned my house and the fridge - didn't mean to but the discovery of a wizened shallot led to Pandora's box so the bleach and a complete overhaul was called for. Apparently you can't keep Pesto for 3 years. Listened to the radio while I pottered about. Popped up to the shop to buy some smoked salmon and green prawns for a nice risotto for dinner. Hired The Shooter for 'ron and now . . .time to crack a bottle. It's been a sad week for three people close to me so sometimes amid this mess of illness, bad surprises, despair, anger, frustration and hardship . . . the most uneventful off days are the most rewarding.