attention all melbourne workers who might walk past the myer christmas windows. i need your help.

hello.

today i saw something that disturbed me much. my mother, princess and i were in town (don't ask why she wasn't at school. all right then, she had an appointment with a medical person. nothing serious, don't worry but thanks for asking.)

we went into town. the plan was to:

1. go to the royal arcade

2. eat some cucumber sandwiches or similar at the hopetoun tea rooms. i used to go there with my nanny. it was a big generational circle of love as we sat there, three generations, discussing the menu with gusto.

3. buy a couple of gifts

as we passed myer, we decided to check out the windows.

last year's polar express fucking sucked. so i didn't hold much hope for this year. i really hate the commercial nature of christmas.

[please don't go away, this will be a really SHORT break.]

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[brought to you by coca cola*]

[and now we return to our program]

... but there was one scene where father christmas was in bed, lying on his side, there were a couple of elves at the back of the room, i think. his eyes were open, he looked aghast. and there was a regular movement under his blanket. maybe it was meant to be his legs moving around? there was a definite sliding motion, but it was a fairly large object under the blanket.

i stood there shocked, not believing what i was seeing. was someone giving santa a blow job?

what i would like please is for anyone who is able to go and check this out.

tell me i am not dreaming.

please.





* the multinational which used to own christmas after the christians and before mc donald's.

do you want to hear about the real-estate witch or something more philosophical? oh ok, let's do both.

first, the philosophy. it's short.

ok, we all know about bird poo. what about bird wee. think about it.

* * * * * * * * * *

onto the witch. remember her?















remember? the meanie who was trying to sniff out whether i had a toto in residence?

and then there was me:


















so, now we are coming to the end of this story. i left the note with the keys saying for her to write to me at (new address). i didn't say because i didn't want her in my fucking ear on the phone, not giving me time to think, trapping me with her witchy cunning.

so a friend comes over yesterday for lunch. almost as soon as she arrives, my mobile goes. and it's witch penny.

i won't recreate the whole conversation here. let's pick it up just after she said "the oven's dirty"

MG: really? must have missed that. (this is the truth.)

PW: yes, i know that people can miss things like that, but the griller was fine

MG: i'll come and clean it

PW: and then there's the garden, it needs weeding.

this is where i started my rant, and managed i think to shut her up:

MG: i worked really hard in the garden (true) when i took possession of the property there were no garden beds, i created what's there, there was grass all in the beds. sure the lawns were mowed but it was not weeded. i can get statutory declarations from my friends and family who all saw me working in the garden, and how i improved it...

PW: i have some digital photos here...

MG: i never saw any digital photos, are they dated? why wasn't i shown them? how do i know when they were taken? are they dated? listen the problem with you property managers is that you are always changing, so the person who does the condition report is no longer there, and you came in later, so you didn't see the property at the beginning. when i spoke to nicole she said the owner was "well-aware of the condition of the property" when i pointed out several (like 1,000) things wrong. plus i forwarded you a list of additional items that weren't covered in the condition report...

PW: well things that aren't on the condition report are null and void-

MG: well, all my friends and family will be happy to sign statutory declarations on the condition of the property when i took possession, and the effort i have put into maintaing it while i was there.

[i'm thinking, she's not mentioned the evil mould on the bathroom ceiling!!]

PW: then there's the mould on the bathroom ceiling but i know that we didn't get the fan-

MG [cutting her off in a wild spray]: exactly! and two tradesmen came to quote

PW: well we couldn't go ahead without the owner's approval

MG: exactly, i told you i couldn't clean the mould, we needed a fan, it was just so steamy!

PW: well-

MG: so how can i get the keys back to come and clean the oven?

[cut now to after school. princess and i are at the old house. i have brought ajax, one scrubber sponge thingy, rubber gloves and as soon as i see the oven i think, oh fuck!]

it was like a haunch of meat had been roasted in there, straight on the rack, with the essential meat juices dripping down to the bottom of the oven. now i had never cooked in this manner. when did this happen? why did i miss it when we moved in?

probably because you are so busy your head is in a spin like all the time.

i try to scrape, i try to ajax. then we get in the car and go and get the heavy, chromosome-mutating type of oven cleaner. went back, sprayed it on thick then ran out for coffee and cake. i had apple and apricot crumble cake and princess had lemon tart. then back to scrape and it came up ok.

just sent penny witch an email going on about how i took the rubbish out while i was there, and will go back and bring the bin in this afternoon. cause i'm nice. and also how some bad person left takeaway rubbish in the recycling bin so i had taken care of that. because i am the sort of person you refund bond to intact. and asking when in fact that would be.

how can she not give back all the bond to me?

me a bit nervous tonight

last night i was sitting here and i heard the gigi barking (sorry, i can't change her name. she has to stay gigi. she is to big for frou frou or chi chi. alas.)

it was about nine o'clock. i went out to the back garden. right down the bottom and around the corner. we have a huge back garden. gigi was standing there in the moonlight, facing the two big gates, and i knew there was someone there.

this is a dog that doesn't bark.
















this is a dog who is so cute and friendly, and wants to just love you, whoever you may be, and be loved by you, however you can give it. pats, bones, a game of ball, a walk. anything, even the crumbs of affection that might fall off your plate, as you eat at the big human Table of Life.

she continued to stand, on guard, alert. it made me alarmed. i went silently over to the fence and climbed up on the rung things (you know how one side of the fence is smooth, the other has the horizontal rung things?)

i hoisted myself up, and looked over. there was no one there. then i looked up the street and i saw a thin man walking away. he was walking close to the fence, so i couldn't see him properly, but i saw his right arm, and he was wearing a dark t-shirt.

i jumped down. i knew that he had stopped at the gate. maybe tried to open it. which is impossible cause they are out of alignment and he would have needed a brick and a crowbar to get them open.

i patted the gigi, and told her she was a good guard dog. she has got a really deep, really loud bark. it makes her sound like a big hound, and this is good. i am hoping the robber man has gone and told all his dodgy friends in this suburb that sounds like a car name, that the house with the such and such fence, on such a such corner has got a big fucking dog, so don't go sniffing around there, mate. you might get bit.

then i started to walk back to the house. and there was a human figure, in the dark, on the path, near the big bush. i stopped and my heart did the pounding thing. cliche yes, inaccurate no. it was dark so i couldn't see how tall, but there was movement, and it was alive.

"princess?" i whispered. more of hope, it was like a wild moment when anything was possible.

it was her. gigi had woken her up with her baskerville-type impersonation. never have i been more glad to wrap my arms around my girl. another cliche yes, completely fucking accurate yes too. i put her back to bed and then went to bed myself.

you can understand my paranoia. plus it's still another few weeks before my man is down here full-time and can deal with the robbers.

on other gigi-related matters i handed the keys back to the old house yesterday, along with a note to property manager bitch # 2 to deal with any matters by correspondence. that's WRITING. a letter. not getting me on the phone so you can trick me, you witch.

waiting to see if i get all my bond back. waiting to see if anyone says anything about the gigi chewing on the crappy kitchen drawers, or the evil mould growing on the bathroom ceiling because they kept getting quotes to replace the broken fan in there, and never did. so fingers crossed for me, anyone know any spells, please do something. i need that $1200 to pay my tax bill.

how convenient

from this...





















[meet michelle. she's a swimwear model]



to this...

















[here's michelle in custody in bali. now she's a muslim. she's obviously devout, because to wear hijab to try and sway the jury or whoever if she is not devout would simply be making a mockery of islam. funny though. balinese people are not muslim. whatever, it's worth a shot...]



to this...




















[phew, that was close. lucky i don't have to wear that outfit anymore. because if i was the type of muslim to wear it once, i'd have to wear it all the time. because of modesty you know. i'm glad i can choose to be a part-timer.]

are anonymouses the scum of the earth, or 'shit stirring 101'*

i just know this will offend our anonymous friends. but it's time to step up, and be counted. have your voice heard for real, put up or shut up.

i woke up the other morning wondering about it. do anonymous commenters have a different psychology to others on blogger and other blog forums?

then I got to thinking about all of us. how we operate as a group, as a community.

connections
i’m interested in the idea of the connections we make, beyond the self-expression, the self-indulgence, the spew of ideas onto screen. for me, this is a way to write every day. i’m hooked, i’m addicted, i really am. i don’t think i’m alone. the moment when i start to go through my blogroll and check in on people, it’s a feeling like i’m a teacher and i am checking my world. there is a certain order in the way i visit. i go to mine first, then i work upwards from my saved favourites. i start at the bottom, and depending on how much time i have, usually not much, i skip people who i have saved. but there are guaranteed visits to most of the people who i have linked to.

once i’ve completed the cycle, i may re-visit a couple, because it can take over an hour to make my tour.

identity
i’m interested in identity too. i’ve noticed that lots of americans use photos of themselves. then there are the people who have used pics of real people, but it’s not them. (jess? i’m right, aren’t i?) then there are the ones who have chosen completely out-of-context pics (fluffy, for example). then there are the ones who cross-gender (monsieur maze) with their pictorial self-representations.

some people write in a non-gendered way, so that it takes a while to figure out whether they are male or female. i wonder whether this is on purpose too, or some sort of unconscious act.


anonymouses
others log in simply as anonymous, without even a made-up name. what does this mean, psychologically speaking? are these people ones who need to really disassociate from their thoughts, ideas and comments from even a semblance of a person? what i mean is, why can’t they create a name, even one that is meaningless, and then comment? do they need the freedom of being anonymous to comment without reserve? do they still hold back?

holding back
i know that i hold back, a lot. but it doesn't affect the content, if that makes sense. what i hold back is the minutiae (sometimes, not always) and the truly intimate (also, not always.) so even though i am virtually anonymous, by using a pseudonym i have created an identity for myself, and this identity i don’t want to sully, beyond silly postings about driving turbo cars etc. i don't want people to think badly of melbournegirl. how fucked is that? well, that is me, after all.

writing styles
some people write purely from the impersonal stance. i have to admit, i don’t visit these people often. i need the personal, because for me it is mostly about connection, and that human experience. other qualities that attract me to certain blogs are their entertainment value, whether they make me laugh, whether there is a dialogue going on about something I care about, or whether there is just a shooting-the-breeze conversation that is amusing. it can be politics, or base humour, or chou-chou frippery. it's hard to define what attracts me. it's like a personal scent, an odour. it's a very individual thing.

commenting
i try not to over-comment. i feel that you can become annoying and boring and like a person that you are sick of at school, always popping up. and by saying you, i mean me. i feel that some bloggers create exclusivity well by simply not commenting heaps. not that i want to be exclusive, but i also want to avoid being ubiquitous. it’s so dull and predictable.

responding to comments
i want to say that i don't always respond to comments. it depends how i feel, how i react, and how much time i've got. usually not much. and as i see the hours stretching out, like right now, when i want to be in bed, or writing my thesis, and i'm fucking here, spewing out this shit, well. what can i say. i do want to say i don't do the everyone's equal thing, like responding to everyone equally in turn. i can see that it's courteous. and i like to be well-mannered. (i was about to write well-manned there) (yes, please) however, it just ruins the flow. for me it's an aesthetic thing. a visual thing. nothing more. so don't be offended if i don't point out that your comment was terrif!

postings
with these i just do whatever takes my fancy. this is the freedom i love. whenever i have had to write for work things, it’s always been prescribed, always to a brief. technical writing, for someone like me, is DEATH to the juices that do just flow naturally, if only i let them. as my life has crowded in on me, and i’ve become a groan-up, i don’t have the opportunity to work on my own creative babies. they are tucked away, and haven’t been brought out for several years. but i will return to them. in the meantime, i can write what i like here. or pretty much what i like.

talking about other people
once i wrote here about a friend whose husband was having an affair. i haven’t updated this, because it’s very personal. there have been major developments, but i haven’t gone there. i tried to be careful about identity. anyone who knows the people concerned reading this would work it out easily. my reason for talking about it in the first place was as way to vent my angst. certainly not to hurt her in any way. but if she knew it was here in public, it would hurt her to the core. should i remove it? i feel it’s buried now, in my archives. and no one will find it. but still it is my one concern. what do you think?

i'm thinking i should change the gigi's name to frou frou or bijoux or chi chi. she is the only one whose name has appeared truthfully.

etiquette
before i started my blog i told my boyfriend. i felt it would be somehow a betrayal to write here without him knowing. i had looked at a couple of blogs, and they were so intimate, so free. i felt this was something i couldn’t keep from him, so i told him. he established a couple of blog personas and i’d be surprised if none of you have twigged. i’ve thought about starting another one, one where absolutely no one knows who i am, and then i can write down my deepest, darkest thoughts. but i am enjoying this warm family, right here, as melbournegirl, and so will not stray to the dark side. if i do, i’ll let you all know. ha.

at first i told also my brother and sister about this. we are close as a family and i thought i wouldn’t be writing anything that i wouldn’t want them to know. anything that my boyfriend can read, they can too. but as time went on, and i knew they hadn’t bothered to look it up (originally i wanted them to make a few comments as strangers, so i wouldn’t look like a total no-comment loser) then my content started to become a little freer, i have to admit. though i wouldn’t care that much if they read what i write, i admit that knowing that no one who knows me, other than my most intimate partner reads it, is liberating.

i feel i’ve learnt a lot. in the beginning, i would stick my nose in to places where it didn’t belong. i have learnt some restraint, and will delete written comments before posting them.

i have only ever once commented anonymously, and that was on the blog of a dickhead (no i won't link him here, he doesn't deserve any traffic) who was basically bragging about his real/imagined conquests. it was terribly hateful and misogynistic. him, not my comments. i knew he would be the type to play nasty, and so i didn’t want to lead him back to melbournegirl.

but back to the anonymouses
are you mice? are you chicken? what is is that makes you be an anonymous? i would love to know your motivations and your reasons for having no identity.

and why are we all here?

i'd also love to know how many people read this blog, beyond the people who comment. i don’t hold with all the fancy-schmancy technology counter type things where i can check who’s visisted. or their urls. or their isps blah de blah. i want to do this the old-fashioned way.

so
can everyone reading this please say so, if you are a regular reader, please just indicate. or an occasional reader. or any reader. or commenter. anonymously is fine. you don’t need to comment on the content, just a hand up is fine.

[takes off sociologist hat and goes to bed to read nw]

ps. i would like to say that ms fits was the site that i broke my cherry on [comme une vrai americaine.] what a site to start at. what a precedent. any other cherries to be offered would be most appreciated too.

* hello there!

short little quick one before bed

today princess was home sick.

we watched a little bit of oprah.

someone on the show mentioned september 11.

princess said: mummy, what's september 11?

mg, [incredulous]: you don't know?

princess: no

mg: it's when the planes flew into the buildings... and the buildings fell down. in new york.

[no sounds of recognition from princess]

mg: it was about four years ago. 2001. five years ago.

[silence]

mg: you don't remember that?

princess: no

[the news broke on september 12, 2001 here in melbourne. if you hadn't been up watching west wing or something and seen it unfold, then the next morning was when most people heard about it. my father had called. to say happy birthday to princess, on that morning on september 12, and to tell me how "bad things were happening in new york."

allow me to feel proud and smug that my daughter has not been tainted with the enormous fear that this created, and still we all refer to it. that things changed on that day.

well, on that day, her 5th birthday, the tv didn't go on. the radio didn't go on. even though we were all desperate to see what was happening. we played at happy birthday, until she was in bed, and then we rushed to the television.

for months afterwards, princess came home saying that kids at creche were still talking about the buildings falling down, and planes crashing. i had explained to her what had happened in the days after her birthday, because i knew there would be talk at creche and i wanted her to hear it from me. but she never saw a visual image of the planes, the buildings, that i know of. newspapers were carefully turned over. news was not turned on.

some might criticise my approach, or not understand it. they might say that she needs to know about the real world. she is nine. she is learning about the real world. but slowly, not all in one hideous rush of apocalyptic awfulness.

i work hard at keeping my princess' innocence. she has seen enough. she has seen her parents fight and divorce. she has seen her granny in hospital time and time again with tubes coming out of her, with her hair fallen out and sunken eyes. she doesn't see her father more than once a year. she's had food intolerances, hives, dentist issues, best friends leave the state, a budgie die, learning difficulties requiring extra work with an optometrist guy, had to deal with me going on dates with a man not her father, moved schools once, been robbed a few weeks ago, lived in st kilda where there'd be drunks and fights down on the street outside her bedroom window.

she loves her gigi, and her family. she is good at swimming, and likes to sing. she loves neighbours at the moment, she is picking how the plot will go even before i am [yes, saccharine and predictable, but ultimately harmless, and you know what, it's better than all the scary stuff at the moment.]

ps she doesn't like john howard. i'm afraid i haven't been balanced in my approach to politics with her. my mother, too, doesn't like howard, but she tells me i shouldn't be so strident in my condemning of him in front of the impressionable princess. my concession: i took the leunig cartoons off the kitchen wall, but it's too late. my little seditionist-in-the-making is well on the way to being an intelligent, compassionate and passionate social justice left-winger.

the horror, the horror

we are in. we have moved. again i told my mother, if i start to talk about moving, tell me i'm mental. stop me. don't let me do it. unless we are being physically kicked out of this place, then that's it. for a while.

the new house. it's big. it has a la-di-da tennis court (with lots of weeds and deserted en-tous-cas). it has 4 bedrooms and then a section at the front that used to be a doctor's surgery. i kid you not! each of those three rooms has sinks. including one with the special handles so you can turn the water on without cross-contaminating your freshly hygenised hands. i'm thinking nice screen or fabric suspended from ceiling to cover them. they are fugly. but it means the kids get a play room, we get an office and there's a dedicated guest room. lux.

THEN there's a waiting room too. i could open a brothel, with a theme of doctors and nurses. me and my partner could dress up as nursey and doc, do a bit of scene-and-mood-setting, walk around thwacking rubber gloves and brandishing thermometers... then exit stage left and let the girls work their magic. we could have old mags in the waiting room, which have vinyl built-in benches. or perhaps that could be another theme room. we could work four girls...

leave it with me.

here is a summary list of all the places i've lived. this pretty much covers the last 22 years.

starting point, ashburton. or ashboring as we liked to call it. family home. cocker spaniel.

[SHOUTS AT SELF. PRECIS, YOU TIRED WOMAN. JUST A SUMMARY!!]

ok.

moved out to camberwell, lived in a house with my dad. there about a year.

moved to house in burnley. on the train line. one year.

moved to flat in south yarra. one year? less.

moved back home, to ashboring.

moved to burke road, glen iris. 1 year?

moved in with my dad again, flat in hawthorn.

moved to richmond. 1 year?

moved to east melbourne. 1 year?

went overseas for 7 months. for some of that time, lived in london. hated it. every time i blew my nose, black stuff came out.

came home, moved back into ashboring.

moved to japan. lived in 3 places there. mostly osaka. 2.5 years total.

went to turkey. was there 7 months i think. lived in 1 place in istanbul.

came back to... ashboring.

then fairly quickly, moved to friend's place in northcote. this was not a full move, but still counts as a distinct residence.

moved to flat in east melbourne. 1 year.

moved to grey st., st kilda. bed sit. i was pregnant, it was a stinky bedsit (owned by my dad, but oh, quelle horreur)

bought apartment in st kilda. the secret life of them pad. stayed here a couple of years. this is where princess was born.

when she was 10 months old we rented out the slot pad and went to turkey for 4 months. lived in 3 places there. i know, i know. madness.

came back to, you guessed it. ashboring.

moved to inkerman rd, caulfield. 1 year.

went to turkey again, 1 year. lived in 2 places.

came back. not to ashburton, but to st. kilda. there from 2000 to 2004 sept which is the longest i have stayed in one place as an adult, when we moved to glenhuntly rd, caulfied sth. there for 15 months, and then today have moved to bentleigh.

ok, so that's 25 distinct residences. then there were the full moves, you know the full catastrophe.

the problem is each time i have more stuff.

i am aching all over.

time to go.

meme continued

ok, as promised here is the rest of it. you might have wondered why i even bothered last night to try to do this? as bevis has commented, i should have just left it until i was less tired and emotional.

but i had promised i would do it last night.

so that can be number 6:

6. i really really do my best to keep my promises. having said that, i am also quite careful about WHAT i promise.

7. i prefer dogs to cats

8. i learnt belly dancing before it was trendy.

9. over my life i have had the following recurring dreams
- when i was little, like about 5 i was a fat fairy who had to really work at flying by flapping my arms really hard, and then i would slowly lift off and then fly around to perform all manner of impressive feats. most of them was saving my family. i don't know why i was fat, cause i wasn't in my real life.
- also when i was little i would dream of a wall of sand that would pulsate forwards and backwards, to the backing of a throbbing drum sound (i know, i know. weird.)
- when i was in primary school i would have dreams that i was at school in my singlet. and nothing else.
- similar dreams persisted when i was in secondary school.
- as i got older and shouldered grown up responsibilities and stresses, i would dream that either my teeth were falling out, or that i had scratchy wiry stuff stuck in my throat. i could breathe through it, and would be careful not to panic, but would reach down my throat and pull out this stuff. there would be miles and miles of it, often wire, sometimes fabric. horror story, yes? i know, you don't have to tell me. serious anxiety issues? but the thing is, in real life i am not anxious. i am pretty much in control of things.

10. still on the dream theme, i very RARELY have sex dreams. and when i do, it is usually with some famous person, and not necessarily someone i fancy in real life. often these dreams morph not into sex, but there'll be an encounter, then we become friends and it's romantic and flirty, but doesn't go any further. that's ok. i guess.

11. i don't think i know how to flirt.

12. i am very good at keeping secrets.

13. once i bought a $245 bottle of cristal champagne as an act of revenge. it didn't taste any damn different to a $15 bottle of yellowglen. but it was the act that was powerful.

14. i am lucky in that things always turn out for me in life, but unlucky in that i never win raffles/prizes/tatts/etc. i believe that things work out for a reason, i look for the reason, and if something is not good now, it doesn't mean i can't turn it around and see the benefit later.

15. i like my feet

16. sometimes i worry that using nail polish and hair dye will give me some sort of cancer

17. i like the idea of wearing a uniform to work. i applied for the police a few years ago, but i wear glasses and was too blind for them. i blitzed the entrance exam though.

18. when i was at school i had a MAJOR fully in LOVE crush on adam ant. i had a scrap book. i went to BOTH his melbourne concerts, i went to the southern cross hotel where he was staying, i took a present of a coffee table book of waltzing matilda, of course with my name and contact inside. i was allowed past the throng of school girls to take it to the front desk to leave for him.
i never heard from him. i moved on.

19. i think i have a touch of ocd. all my coathangers have to be facing the same way (hooks to the back) and i like all the labels on my food jars to be facing the front. the tv volume has to be on an even number.

20. i can never remember jokes. in my life, i have heard so many, but i just can't remember them. there's only one that i can. i told it on someone's blog. they still talk to me, but it is pretty gross. i don't know why that's the only one.

so that's it. i struggled with the last one, but it's done now. not sure if i complied completely with the brief, what was the brief? things you don't know about me?

the meme for bevis. the tag thing. it's so late and i can't type very well and i've had champagne so forgive any typos

these 20 or more things are what i jotted down on various scraps of paper. this is probably the first point, the number one. you should know that i am ALWAYS sitting in my car at the light, scrabbling through my bag for a piece of paper, and a pen, to scrawl notes on it, then the lights go GREEN and i have to drive, steer through all manner of complications while simultaneously writing down my most urgent thoughts...

god i'm tired. i want to go to bed. i have never been so tired and emotional while blogging...

no.1: when i was little i thought i was different or special. i asked my brother "do you feel special?"

"no," he said.

2. i often feel invisible. Alot of people don't really see me.

3. giving birth was AMAZING. i felt like amazon woman, it was like it was me in a club with every woman who had given birth through history, right back to cave woman. so primal.

4. i've been robbed 4 times. it really sucks.

5. i have four scars on my body but i don't look terrible because of it. the best/worst one was when i was 7 and i fell off a horse i was trying to make jump over a log, and it bolted and ran through the forest and a branch whacked me on the forehead and i somersaulted and then landed on a log which had a broken off branch, and that cut through my jeans (v-knees?) and then i had a hole in my leg which got stiched up by dr eagle (i kid you not) on a sunday afternoon, and my mother always wondered whether he was pissed, cause he did such a bad job. i still loved horses and continued to ride after that

god i'm stuffed. i have to go to bed. will finish tomorrow.

promise.

x

while you wait for my meme [for bevis] here is a little something i have just created. you may also use it. feel free.

it's a yuyu [pronounced you-you]

i would like to dedicate twenty things to someone else. this is what i will affectionately call a yuyu. maybe it will catch on.

remember it started here.

1. you accept me, and i love that

2. you also tolerate me, my bad side

3. you listened when i told you i was complex and complicated. now you know that was true and still you love me.

4. you tell me i have a lovely back

5. you tell me you love my arse

6. you really enjoy my cooking

7. you accept that i am independent and need my space. "man."

8. you are open to being open with me

9. you listen to me when i am bossy

10. you have never, EVER sworn at me. you don't know what this means to me.

11. you have never belittled me, or put me down

12. you like to eat as much as me. maybe more?

13. you call me gorgeous

14. you call me cute

15. you appreciate my mind

16. you laugh at my jokes

17. you support me in whatever i want to do

18. you don't [seem] to feel threatened that reading may well always be my first love

19. you accept when i tell you that my daughter will always come first

20. you are close to your family, and i am too. you understand and like "family"

oh no, i've got another one:

21. you get me

i could go on, but i think that's enough. don't want to make him blush too much.

[blows kiss]

this is what i had to ask the newsagent person for a paper bag, in which to carry this out of the store so the children wouldn't see it...

i love my NW magazine. i know, it's trash. it's worse than trash, it's the same trash each week, just some different frocks and a small variety of rotating cover stories:

1. stars without makeup
2. celebrity plastic surgery horrors
3. stars who are skinny
4. celebrities who are fat

that's it. i swear.

i know i am a fairly clever person. i am pretty street smart, i am bookish, i am old enough to raise a child, as well as a golden retriever.

i also love this magazine. i know. i know. it's all wrong.

but even i question it, when i am too self-conscious to be seen carrying this:














i don't know if you can see it properly, nor do you, but the centre pic is of alicia duvall (who is she?) who has big fake boobs. they have photoshopped the nipples out (whether to comply with the anti-rude legislation or so they wouldn't interfere with the headline)

inside, in the feature section, they have yellow stars over the nipples.

that's all i've got today. i'll be working on the meme for bevis.

one confession and other sundry matters

i have something to confess. the badass robber did NOT steal princess's junior dictionary. i have found it in her room. also the BR did NOT steal my orange dolphin torch. i found that under my bed.

i feel like a dick about it, but i could have not said anything to you. could have kept quiet about my mistake. i did look under the bed and couldn't see the torch. oh well. but my big macquarie is definitely gone.

why am i banging on about the fucking dictionary?

my books are my babies. i know some of you will understand this. i do not covet much [is this a lie? let me think about it*] but i do lust for books. it started with agatha christie novels, slim and fetching, cheap and which i purchased weekly when i was working as a check-out chick at safeway when i was 16. i would get my pay, buy two peaches and one agatha christie. i lasted about 4 months in the job. it was so boring. from then on, i was buying and reading books more than anything else. more than kissing boys. more than having my hair cut. more than watching tv.

books, ah books. i cannot pass a second-hand book shop without going in. i cannot enter a second-hand book shop without buying something, or several somethings. because they are cheap i tell myself it's ok to buy more than one.

this obsession even extends to stationery items. paper, pens, notebooks etc. it is a sickness.

other matters - we spent the weekend at the wangaratta jazz festival. i haven't described my dad before other than to call him a very rude word because he bailed on princess's birthday lunch back in september. but i just want to tell you one thing about him. he is jazzman. he has been going to this festival for about 17 years, since whenever it started. and he said there has NEVER been rain like we had over the weekend.

it rained for 29 hours, with only a couple of short breaks - once in the night time on saturday night, the other sunday morning for an hour... it rained, and it rained, and it rained. our tent leaked. badly. there was mud. my brother-in-law was calling it the somme. we kept our humour which was helped by a fair amount of alcohol.

we were due home today but left yesterday. we'd had enough. we went and stayed at the new house, which was fun. i managed to watch the cup. the first time in decades that it has captured my interest. obviously to do with The Horse. and yes, i cried as i watched her win. beautiful animal, galloping along, so effortlessly. gorgeous, gorgous beast. yes, i still have a latent desire for horses, which has never been satisfied. not that, you sickos. i used to have a velvet covered riding hat, and was desperate for a pony when i was a kid. nevermind that the largest scar i have was caused by a fall when i was 7.

but i have one question. what was with those freaky masks the jockey's wife had? and the owner as well. with his emirates baseball cap, and a weird desperado bandido mask.

one last thing. i am worried about getting pulled in for questioning for 14 days by the cops because of expressing my thoughts and opinions about politics and our government and america's government here in public. who would know what had happened? i wouldn't be able to tell anyone, and no journalist would be able to report on it.

isn't anyone else really worried about this? we might become a police state. and anyone who says it's a bad idea is labelled left-wing as if that is some kind of filthy thing to be.

i just don't get it.

* i've thought about it and i do sometimes covet art work, homewares, shoes, and certain pieces of clothing. but i can live without those things. the books are different.