you've come a long way, baby.

really?

back when i was young and the kids drank big ms and the mothers drank tab and the fathers drank melbourne bitter, or vic bitter, none of that fancy shit, and when no one really thought much about going to the shops on your bike and buying a bag of lollies; when fish and chips were a weekly treat, when going out for dinner meant the local chinese restaurant, and chicken and sweet corn soup was exotic but not too outlandish so that it was the only thing, along with dim sims, that fussy 7-year-old male virgos would eat. back then, thinking back, it's easy to think that things were simpler.

that men and women were a little more cut and dried in their gender roles.

i know things were being challenged in the '60s and '70s - hell, at the moment i'm re-reading nancy friday, and i've read greer, as well as naomi wolf who kind of tries to pick up, along with paglia, the new wave of thinking.

but why, when all is said and done, am i still washing a man's underwear and hanging them up, working out what to eat for dinner, worrying about the management of the household, AS WELL AS THINKING ABOUT EARNING MONEY, thinking about my mortgage, trying to summon some sort of interest in sexual pleasure (fuck nancy friday and her libidinous life; she was/is childless).

at least i don't iron his shirts. what a fucking emancipated woman am i.

so, it's that time of year again.

it's time to do the french thing.

this time of year, the mind turns to french desserts and what other kind of main meal there might be that's not boeuf bourgignon, that's not belgian, that's french enough for our once-a-year tour de france night. minds turn to the bottle of absinth that is packed away in storage, left-over from the tour meal two years ago. hearts turn to cheese, and lots of it.

i know the tour is on every night for many nights at the moment (is it 2 weeks? 3? so shoot me, i don't know, i'm not a complete tour-head) and many of us are up until 1am, watching the boys in their lycra, and trying not to stare at their bulging crotches (some of us that is; others don't really care. about staring.)

so this year it's at my sister's, and they are doing main and i have said i will take dessert. for us and the kids. the kids don't get to eat the real french food. we fob them off with a quick pasta bake or something.

i've decided to make creme brulee, which was the dessert that we always ate in paris when we were there. it's like being in an italian restaurant. if they have tiramisu, we had to have that too.

so i've got the ingredients, i've got the little ramekins. i've got the friggin expensive vanilla beans. i don't have the blow torch cause i thought i'd see how i go just grilling them.

the test run is tonight. and the plan is to make meringues with the egg whites (because the brulees only require the yolks.)

so, that's the food.

last night was the second night for the tour to be passing through the mountains. i watched until 11.30, and by then i'd had my fill of crotches and it was making me tired just watching these dudes cycling up the mountain. how on earth do they do it. i reckon they are machines, they would just have to do that, and when they're not riding, they wouldn't be able to have a conversation with anyone, they'd be too used-up, don't you think? do they have wives? i know cadel does, she plays the piano or is a singer or something, but do you reckon she's over there? it seems such a hard thing to be doing, riding a bicycle up a mountain. he wouldn't be able to go back to the hotel and summon a smile for his wife, would he? would he be up for a romantic dinner on the terrace, with champagne and then some lovin'?

i think not.

i've blogged about the tour before*, but i have more questions now.

1. why are their crotches so prominent and big? my sister said that a few days ago one of the men had a big stiffy. BIG. HUGE. she said it was really distracting. i wonder if he was wearing white lycra. i bet he was. i swear, sometimes i reckon i can see the different parts of part, if you know what i mean in the white-suit boys.

2. the rest of them are so skinny. i know they probably have to consume three times as many calories or whatever than the rest of us who are sitting around on our arses. but they are still really skinny, in the arms mostly.

3. it bothers me that they just throw their rubbish to the side of the road - drink bottles, everything. i know people probably clean this up, do the cars do it? but what if they miss a few drink bottles. that hard plastic is just so bad, so ugly, and france is so pretty.

4. i still don't get how it works. when cadel had his crash and they were talking about robbie mc ewan (?) dropping back to get anti-inflammatories from the doctor and then taking them up to cadel. how does that work? wouldn't he have to be a better rider than cadel to drop back then catch up?

5. what do these people do for the rest of the year? there'd be other races, lots of other races i guess. do they travel the circuit like tennis players? how do the teams work? do they team up for certain races, and in other groups for others? are any races just a normal A to B first over the line wins race?

6. would you serve something with the creme brulee? probably not. i'll get some cheese i think for later when we are watching the race.

* several posts, july 2006 if you can be bothered looking.

do-re-me-me-me

so it's been a while between memes. and thanks to the delightful magical_m, we now have a new one.

i love that this is about clothes. ages ago i did a post about clothes i have loved and lost. i think the clothes and shoes we have worn and inhabited are as nostalgic as old photos and houses. does anyone dream of houses? i used to have a recurring dream which featured a building in the city which was unlike any i've seen, but seemed so real. i have never been to the nicholas building, but when i do finally go, and i will, i fully expect it to be the building from my dream.

to the meme.

WHEN I was 1, my parents dressed me in...

some sort of frilly shirt i imagine and wool tights? i don't know, ask my mother why don't you?

WHEN I was 5, I dressed myself in...

i don't think i was dressing myself at five. i would have been the spoilt and over-parented oldest child until i asserted my independence and moved away from mother at the age of 18. (just finished re-reading my mother, myself. by nancy friday. buy it and read it all you daughters/mothers.) what am i talking about, when i was five my bro was 2 and into the saucepan cupboard and under the sink and eating the toilet freshener and the cat food. i probably did dress myself. there is a photo of me in red woollen tights, mum's silk, spiky-heeled wedding shoes and a faux-fur ski hat, with glomesh evening bag, but i think that was "dress ups".

WHEN I was 7, my favourite outfit was...

it's a toss-up between my white, lace-up knee-length boots and cream knitted poncho which got spag bol sauce on it at leo's spaghetti bar one time; and an all-red outfit - a pants suit with flared trousers and a red top (with some white, horizontal bands across the chest) and white skivvie underneath. i remember i had pale brown boots that went over the pants, they were quite loose and went mid-calf. it was almost like the at-home-aboard-jupiter-2 outfits that the robinson girls wore, so i felt very penny in my red pantsuit.

MY favourite school photo outfit was...

the one when i was about 8 or so and i was wearing illicit gym boots (converse high-tops for you young people out there). my primary school had a uniform, but i would take my gym boots in my bag, and change into them on the street on the way to school, because my mother wouldn't let me wear them to school. but there i am, deceit fully displayed, right there in the front row of my grade 3 or 4 school photo.

IN high school the fashion trend I started was...

the school shoes with the t-bar strap. when i was in hsc everyone was still wearing the lace-up black school shoes. at the beginning of the year, i got a pair of the t-bars (well, me and another girl but I swear it was just us two and it was coincidental and a concurrent, non-conferenced decision). by the end of the year, many others did too. and then by the time my sister was in year 12, everyone had them. do you see the lace-ups anywhere now? i rest my case.

ON my first date the outfit I wore was...

i can't remember my first date. i don't think i had one (see '80s diaries). let me think...

nup. my first relationship went like this: i met a guy at a party, we pashed that night, i stayed at his place, but nothing else happened, honest, and after that we started hanging out. i was 18. then we moved in together. i wasn't a dating sort of person.

FOR my high school formal I wore...

a polyestery, burgundy-red frock with an elasticised waist, and some sort of shirring over the chest region. i think it had some sort of puffy sleeve as well. it wasn't awful, it was quite grown-up and mature and certainly not an '80s taffeta catastrophe. can't remember the shoes, but i think there was pantyhose involved. the shoe would have been a plain court-shoe with an ugly, conservative heel.

AT my 21st I wore...

i didn't have a 21st party. to celebrate my family and i went to tolarno's for dinner in st. kilda but i can't remember what i wore. i was living with my boyfriend at the time, and my mother gave me $300 to spend on myself. i spent it on bills. then later, when i was travelling i spent $300 on some gold jewellry, as a replacement present. then it all got stolen a few years after that while i was living overseas. (irrelevant information included because there is no substantial answer to this one).

THE oldest item of clothing I still wear is...

some fishnet stockings my mother had in the '60s. oh ok, i don't wear them, but i still have them. and sometimes, occasionally, almost never i do wear them. i plan to wear them next weekend, because we are going to a tour de france dinner, and while we eat french food, i will be wearing my fishnets.

THE item of clothing I wish I still had was...

those 2 mohair cardigans i bought more than 20 years ago, which have recently featured in the diary excerpts. also my shiny-lycra black full-length leggings - i reckon i could give them a red-hot go under a skirt with flat shoes.

MY current favourite item of clothing is...

the cheap ankle boots i picked up at dfo, but only teamed with my jag wide-leg jeans (the first i've had in years that aren't always slipping off my arse). i'm also still really digging the glossy black patent-leather handbag i got in florence (benetton). oh, and my geelong beanie - the hat of victory.

and i tag the following:

jo_blue

d-stah

AOF

and so the boys don't feel left out:

perseus

INC

BEVIS

gullybogan

do it or not. as you will. no pressure.

for my 360th post

let me list the ways:

1. i have a sore eye-socket. left.

2. my right arm is stiff, has been for ages. no i haven't been pumping iron.

3. i am cold.

4. i am eating too much ice cream.

5. i confess three and four may be connected. if not, they are evidence of my foolish, foolish nature.

6. i am housebound with 3 children.

7. i am bored.

8. i am wearing purple, velvet tracksuit pants, with a black skivvie.

9. i just forgot i'm heating the hair straightener in the bathroom.

10. i am going to straighten my hair.

11. then i am going to read the age.

12. we have two copies of the age today, because clokes put the copy bought in the morning on the table in the hall. i went out the back door and didn't see it.

13. last night we watched the first episode of dexter. i liked it except the ending was stupid. i hope it settles down with the stupid endings.

14. MY NAME IS MELBA AND I WILL BUY A MAGAZINE IF IT HAS BRAD PITT AND ANGELINA ON THE COVER.

15. we went back to mirka on friday night and had a bombe each. EACH. decadent and delish.

16. i bought some new undies recently. it hasn't helped.

17. the dog needs a wash.

18. the dog needs a flea treatment.

19. i enjoy the school holidays because i can sleep in. i don't enjoy them because i don't have my quiet space.

20. i need to earn some more money.

21. there is mould growing in the bathroom. see number 20.

22. ali asked if princess can go visit him again this year (either turkey, or the states over christmas. long term readers, this is a mistake, right? but she's older, right? not sure about it.)

23. ah the sun is trying to break through the clouds.

24. the hairstraightener might start to smell soon.

25. big brother is so fucking boring. i hate them all. especially cherry.

26. no, i don't hate them all. but they are all boring.

27. whatever happened to memes? i swear, i got sick of them for a while, but now they are nowhere. sociologically, are memes for newbies? did we all just go through that stage, or are there new ones out there? i'd be up for a meme. i miss meme'ing.

28. i feel that my little corner of blogworld is struggling. i know i can go on and on forever. i'll be blogging until i'm 90 and blind i think. but people who have more to do in their lives, are like living their lives, and falling off the blog-dar. it's ok, i understand, i am not bitter.

29. except for fits. i miss fits. this is what i've had in drafts regarding fits.

* * *

title: on the passing of ms. fits. it still hurts.


this is what happened on the fateful day. the same day as our first anniversary, may 26th, 2008

[melbournegirl is talking to husband clokes on their first anniversary, this evening about 6 o'clock]

mg: i'm devastated

clokes: yeah, i wondered how she'd keep it going. she's so busy.

mg: yeah i know, but it's so sad.

clokes: it's ok. another one'll come along...

mg: NOOOOOOOHHHH!!!!

clokes: yes!

mg: [leaves the room]

* * *

[later that night, during the festive and romantic celebrations]

clokes: are you on the computer?

[silence]

mg: you don't understand

clokes: yes, i do. it's our anniversary.

[sound of handbeater struggling to cream rock-hard western star in the kitchen. the kids are icing a cake.]

* * *

[later]

princess [opening new idea]: ok, this is an article on relationships, you guys need to read it.

mg: i don't need to read it, i've read it already.

princess: well, clokes, you need to, dude.

clokes: don't call me dude!

princess: i call everyone dude.

* * *

i still check her blog. i still hope. i am bereft. an abandoned child. she was my mother-ship. my touchstone. my corner-stone. my hero. my idol. my shiva.

and now she's gone. gone.

other "outlets" are not satisfying. i don't listen to her. i don't read the gg articles. i always forget about the book show. but for me it started with the blog. i need the bloggy goodness of ms fits.

is anyone else feeling this way?

it's a bit freaky, isn't it?

just call me mel.

* * *

30. sun is out now, i feel better. i have purged and now i go to straighten my hair.

don't judge me but when i was in paris

i bought a hermès scarf. or is that an hermès scarf.

whatever.

the point is, i have been reading for years that if you are to have one, just one, genuine designer fashion accessoire (let's face it, most of us can't afford a genuine designer fashion item, ie frock, coat, etc) then it has to be a/n hermès scarf.

so, when the family were at eurodisney (why didn't i want to go, you ask? are you mad? i hate theme parks. i even hate luna park. apart from the scenic railway the rest. is. crap. bring back the giggle palace, i say) i set off to look at the designer stores. mostly from the outside. i did go into chanel to see if they had those trashy studs with diamante interlocking c's - they didn't. maybe just as well. i found them in chinatown in new york for $4 and haven't worn them because they are so gaudy and wannabe.

then after chanel i walked to hermès. it was quite a hike. i had been walking all over paris, which was lovely. it's lovely in the spring-time. it's lovely in autumn. paris is just lovely anytime. even winter with snow on the ground. the only time i haven't been in summer. i bet it's... lovely.

so, i get to hermès. i look in the window. i look at the display of scarves. i go in. there is a bun fight at the scarf counters. women pushing in to look. i find a space and when a snotty lady asks me if she can help me, i say yes, i would like to look at a scarf. i can't remember if i said je voudrais voir une... er... un... [pointing madly at the scarves] or whether i said it in english. i think i just said it in english. as she had probably spoken in english to me. this last time in paris, i didn't even really try to speak french. it was woeful after being in turkey where i was proficient. my french isn't terrible, after all i did do it in hsc and i can still conjugate a verb like you wouldn't believe. my sister, who is a francophile and vce french teacher, is still amazed by my ability to read french text and translate it into english. but that's the thing, i can do the words in written form; spoken is (as always) more difficile.

so, back to hermès. and back to the snotty saleslady. i asked if i could look at a traditional print. she showed me a couple, not looking at me, not smiling, kind of looking over the top of my head. there was absolutely rien de politesse. i asked her if i could see a geometric print. she showed me a couple. after about 6 scarves, i asked to see something with animals. i just didn't know what i wanted. she thought i wasn't going to buy. she wasn't looking at me. she was looking around me. and huffily pulling out scarves.

when she laid out a gorgeous print in browns and yellows of leopards, i said i'll take that one.

she looked at me, eyebrows up somewhere near her hairline. well, maybe i'm exaggerating with that, she wouldn't have been so déclassé to show her distaste and scepticism that overtly.

i ignored her complete about face, her fawning smile, her of course, madame, follow me, madame. all of a sudden i was a madame, whereas before i was some sort of gypsy mama who had wandered into the great shop, smelling of onions and alcohol, with an unseen visa gold card in her shabby pocket.

i related this story recently to my sister and her husband. when i got up to the part about the saleslady being rude and offhand with me, before me saying i would buy the fucking thing, my brother-in-law said i wouldn't have stayed, i would have walked out, that would have been worthy of a door slam. you need to understand my brother-in-law has a great story about a friend of his storming out of paterson's cake shop in prahran, trying to slam an unslammable door which is on one of those airy piston things, so that he had to go back into the shop, after the door had exhaled its gush of quiet air and say consider the door slammed!

but i wasn't going to storm out of this place. it wasn't a simple matter of my order of party pies and sausage rolls not being ready. this was hermès. this was paris. i wouldn't have gotten my lovely, leopardy, hermès scarf. all done up nicely in its orange box with a brown ribbon tied just so. i wouldn't have gotten the story. i wouldn't have gotten the satisfaction. i would have been just standing out there on the street, going all teary. instead i skipped away, enjoying my once in a lifetime feeling of walking through paris with the distinctive orange shopping bag.

what would you have done? would you have walked out?

thoughts for wednesday

i've been carrying around an old envelope with points 2 - 4 below noted on it. must blog about them so i can throw the envelope away. i'm hoping none of the kids has inspected it too closely. you'll see what i mean.

anyway, first:

1. this is vlado taneski, a journalist in macedonia who reported on a series of rape-murders of old women, and then was arrested because in his articles he revealed details that the police had not made public.

he has been found dead in his jail cell. this is what the police spokesman had to say:

"he committed suicide. he put his head in a pail full of water. it is unclear how none of his cellmates or guards noticed."

you see what he did there?

2. cate blanchette's ukrainian accent in the latest indiana jones movie was flawless apart from her pronunciation of "jones" "know" and all other similarly rhyming words. it was too anglo, too flat, too nasal. it should have been more russian, pronouncing "jones" more as "johns" and "know" to rhyme with "cot" instead of "coat". it was distracting, and disturbing to me that i can do a better russian accent than cate blanchette.

3. i've always wondered what the lyrics to frankie goes to hollywood's relax means:

relax, don't do it, when you want to go to it,

relax, don't do it, when you want to come.

is it just me? there seems to be some sort of contradiction there. i checked on the internet, and there is talk of it referring to not using a condom when you want to come, to not coming to prolong the pleasure in a tantric way.

gah, i still don't get it.

4. er, somewhat related. i had no idea that there were so many different names for sexual stuff. i had no idea that the act of fisting was so varied and established. and that it's referred to in lots of songs, paintings through the ages, and it's like it's been around for ages, and it's not just a recent thing. i really didn't think that i was naive, but there is still stuff out there that shocks me. i mean the maine lobster? my god.

5. can i leave it there? no, let's have something nice to sweeten up the atmosphere.

these are my favourite flowers:

there's one i can't think of the name, nor find a picture. it's a bulb i think. it smells sweet and fills the room. it's white. it's common. it's cheap. can anyone remind me what it's called? the blooms are all bunched together at the top of the stem. it's scent is my favourite.

oh, to have a garden filled with these flowers. to have a peppercorn tree, lying under its shade. a rug. a book. a crisp apple. a warm, lilting breeze.

join me?

*****************************

UPDATE: the flower i was thinking of was erlicheer. thanks kittiminx.

I CHALLENGE YOU TO WATCH THIS AND NOT CRY

it's so beautiful: the music, the lion, the dudes.
thanks to audrey, i cried helplessly about 4 times today, which is a lot more than usual.
if you are not crying right now, you have a stone for a heart. and i hate you.*
* not really. i don't hate you. i feel sorry for you, you stone-hearted shell of a human.

[2012 note - seems like the video has gone. it was the one with the lion Christian and the two dudes who raised him from a cub they bought in Harrods? in swinging London]

foodish thoughts for today

1. i am so tired of seeing gordon ramsay's ugly mug everywhere i look.

2. take note racv club: i hereby declare a war on any dish with a menu description including the word "foam". it's not cool, it's so over, it's so common, it's not distinctive, it sounds REVOLTING, it does not tempt me, it puts me off. face it, when el bulli did it, it was "fresh, innovative and different." though i wouldn't have ordered a dish with foam then. now everyone else, including the racv club, is jumping on the old foam bandwagon, it just reeks of desperation and pathetic derivation.

[starts lobby group called "fuck foam, let's get back to real food"]

3. unless you order a la carte at di stasio, the staff will rush you along in quite a rude manner. won't go there again on principle.

4. at mirka's you can go and sit at the bar and have a coffee and one of their divine bombe glacees.

5. baked beans on rice with some cheese on top (and for moi, sea salt and cracked pepper) is a perfectly acceptable sunday night meal.

6. making traditional italian sausages is a somewhat erotically charged activity and weird when you "do it" with your in-laws.

7. 40+ kilos of pig meat MAKES A LOT OF SALAMIS.

8. aldi fruit is shit.

9. eating "potato jewels" from aldi, then south melbourne market dim sims, then 1/2 doz coffin bay oysters from south aus, is possibly the strangest meal i've had on a friday night for a while.

10. vegemite toast is just not the same without butter.

and isn't the weather glorious? love, love, love how the city looks, and the sky behind it, as we drive around the lake to msac on a monday night.

must. take. camera. next. week.

it's official

it's not porn. it's art. and it's rated pg.



but even so, i don't want to put the whole picture here.

why not? i'm not sure. i don't find it offensive - my god, i have a daughter and we've always been very relaxed with nudity around the house, as were my parents, and i think she's beautiful. there's something, though, about the power, the potential, of a child, a girl child, turning into a woman. as a mother i think it's lovely and gorgeous and natural. but i know there are people who take that admiration too far, and change it into something sick. maybe my reticence is about what people might think about me putting the whole picture here, and that people might judge me for doing that. i know my intentions are pure, but others don't. much like bill henson, perhaps?



in the main, this is why, i think, that charges couldn't be laid against bill henson:


pornography:

1 : the depiction of erotic behavior (as in pictures or writing) intended to cause sexual excitement 2 : material (as books or a photograph) that depicts erotic behavior and is intended to cause sexual excitement.



i don't believe that the photos are intended to cause sexual excitement. that's not to say that they wouldn't for some people. but then we've all heard about paedophiles using department store clothing catalogues and other advertising print matter as "stimulation material".


i feel slightly wrong putting the following interaction in the same post as the above - can groups of words be tainted by association? i feel weird even including my daughter in a post where i've talked about paedophilia - but i give you the conversation i had in the car this morning with my 11 year old daughter.





[radio news - story about world-wide child pornography arrests]





princess: what are they talking about?





mg: um it's about people who have downloaded photos of children that are inappropriate and show abuse, the police have arrested a lot of those people.





princess: gross!





mg: yes, it's a real problem. [goes off on tangent about how maybe it's like people addicted to gambling/drugs/alcohol and the compulsion to do it.]*





princess: i think being addicted to drugs is better than doing that. the children wouldn't want that, and at least with drugs you're not hurting other people.**





mg: yes, you're right there, though the effects on family and friends of drug addicts happen, it can affect everyone around you. if you're addicted to drugs.





princess: yeah...





mg: did you hear the story about the artist, the photographer who had some photos taken away from the gallery by the police-





princess: oh yeah!





mg: i just didn't want, these two stories are different. you know, the people who abuse children, the ones who were arrested for downloading pictures, and the bill henson artist who took photos.





princess: what were the photos of?





mg: well, he takes photos of landscapes, buildings and people. with the people, they are all ages, and sometimes they are clothed and sometimes they are naked.





princess: ew.





mg: remember when we went to all the galleries last year, in florence and paris, we saw so many naked humans, statues, remember david, he was so huge? with his huge penis? and all the naked cherubs and angels-





princess: the top of the vatican ceiling? heaps and heaps of naked-





mg: right!





princess: yeah, in the old days it wasn't a bad thing.





mg: even all those religious paintings we saw, with all the gold and crosses and jesuses, and he was often naked except for a little piece of material across his lap-





princess: yeah!





mg: right. so it's been like this for hundreds of years, the naked body is a natural thing, ok we don't walk around in public in the nude, but the body is beautiful and natural and normal.





princess: mmm [sounding doubtful. she's only 11]





mg: anyway, the photos that caused the problem were of a 13 year old girl and she's naked and in one you can see her little breasts, buds you know, and she has her hands in front of her private parts.





princess: did her parents- she would have given permission-





mg: yeah, and her parents did too.





princess: she would have had to sign forms and all that. the police can't say anything. it's her choice. and her parents said yes.





mg: i think a 13 year old would be able to give permission. especially a 13 year old who is willing to pose for a nude photo, that girl would probably be pretty mature and smart.





princess: yeah, at that age, girls are wanting to get more identity.





mg: what about at 11?





princess: i would never do that, gross, but at 11 you just want to fit in, not be different. at 13, you are being more different.





mg: mmm.





princess: so, now they've made a big deal about it and made everyone look at the photos? before it would have just been in the gallery and not many people would have even known about them.





mg: yeah, maybe the girl now is upset about it.





princess: maybe, i'd be mad at the police. anyway it's ART, definitely!









* this is the only parallel i can think of that allows my brain to process the idea of people gaining sexual gratification from viewing child pornography, that it becomes an obsession and a compulsion they can't control.





** look, she's only 11, no matter how smart she is.

when i was very young

i knew this family. back then, they looked like any other kids but they were called lady emma, lord alexander* and boppy. don't ask me about the boppy thing; he was the youngest, he was fat and that's what people called him.

their mother was lady mary montagu, aka mad mary as the geelong'ites used to refer to her. behind her back, or in front of her, i don't know.

one summer all of the following things happened:

1. i went to the circus with them twice. the first time, there was a bit where they got a volunteer from the audience, put the kid on top of one of the circus horses, tied a "safety" harness around his waist, which was attached to a rope, which then was fed up through a metal hook at the top of the tent above the sawdust ring. they got the horse to go around faster and faster and the kid got scared, from memory, but then the punchline was that they pulled the kid off the horse, hoisting him up by the rope around his waist. then the clowns ran on and "helped" him down to safety and in the process "accidentally" dacked the kid, so there he was in his undies, with the audience laughing at him.

nice. anyway, we left the circus, talking about how mean it was and what bastards they were and then boppy hatched a plan. we would go to another show, he would volunteer to be the sucker kid, it would all unfold as before, except when his dacks got pulled off, he would be wearing his bathers underneath, and the joke would be on the clowns. geddit? genius. we thought we were so smart, we were going to have the last laugh. on clowns, for godsake. ashton's circus clowns. real clowns!

so, we went to another show. boppy had his red speedos underneath. he was out of his seat and running down to volunteer before they'd even really selected him from the crowd. he was up on the horse, beaming fatly. it all went to plan, they hoisted him up, he was ready, he put up a show of fighting them a bit when they dacked him, but then he stood up, so pleased with himself -

ha, you fuckers, i'm wearing my bathers, nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah!

except he didn't say that. that's just what we were all thinking, us who were in on it.

except, only problem was the clowns didn't realise. the bathers just looked like red jocks. the crowd didn't realise our victory either. so poor boppy still got laughed at, and came sheepishly back to his seat, calling out to no one and everyone they're my bathers! BATHERS!

2. i went around to their beach house one day to watch television. there were no parents there that i remember. i was probably about 10 or 11. emma was a little younger? boppy about 8. and alex was a bit older than me. say 12.

we sat in the lounge room, i don't remember who else was there, but i do remember alex took off all of his clothes, was lolling about, moving about the room, bending over in front of the tv to change the channel, so i got a really good look at his arse and balls. and i just sat there and didn't know what to do. so, i just pretended there was nothing wrong with him being nude and walking around like that, and posing.

so, there you go. next thing, his son is one of michael jackson's alleged victims.

* Alexander Charles David Francis George Edward Wiliam Kimble Drogo Montagu

can someone please explain

why can't this man have nuclear capability?
when all these people do:









APJ Abdul Kalam - India













George W Bush - United States












Hu Jintao - China














Jacques Chirac - France












Pervez Musharraf - Pakistan














Tony Blair - United Kingdom













Vladimir Putin - Russia (don't you just love him, he's so, I don't know - moody)

It's not confirmed that Israel does, but let's think that they do. Most probably.

So why can't Kim Jong-Il have some big guns?

It's the sunglasses, isn't it?

And also the fact that he's a freako and a film nut. Not that there's anything wrong with the film nut part.

And appeared in Team America too.

That must be it.

happiness, and sadness.

happy, fun, good, romantic, tipsy, full, lots of dishes, watch big brother, when will we do the presents, two slices of cake, evil-red berry juice, presents? champagne, hear hear to the future, oh what a good husband be he, but why am i on the computer while he does the dishes?


and sadness, end-of-an-era oh why do things have to change, i like things to always stay the same, people always there and nothing moving on. because i always, always find it hard to move on and say goodbye.


onwards and upwards, hey comrades?

continued, the art world

i'm not sure what i think about the goings-on in sydney with the photographs being removed by police from bill henson's exhibition, and the news that charges will be laid.

but my thoughts are:

1. i guess if he wanted to depict something special about vulnerability and youth, he could have used a scrawny, under-developed 18-year-old model.

2. it made me feel uncomfortable, while looking him up on the internet, thinking i might inadvertently download something "unacceptable". all in the name of research doesn't really cut it, hey pete townsend?

3. a quick google trying to find american photographer sally mann - who has had her share of controversy for publishing photographs of her children naked over the years - showed me that there have been court-cases in the states where parents dropping off rolls of film to be developed at k-mart and the like have been arrested and charged with child pornography over photos of their children naked.

4. don't all parents take snaps of their babies and kids naked, and in the bath, and rolling on the rug, and at the beach?

5. when i was a teenager, david hamilton was incredibly popular. hell, he was to the poster, card and calendar business in the '70s what anne geddes and her pumpkin-hatted cherubs was to the poster, card and calendar business in '90s. the girls used to love his photos, which were dreamy and romantic, shot through vaseline-coated lenses and usually featured pubescent girls and boys in "various stages of undress." there was even a movie bilitis, and while that was soft-core porn, the posters of ballerinas in tutus and sylvan-wood-nymph boys in pastel togas were not sexually arousing to me, anyway. but then i was that age myself, and not some paedo.

6. i'm nervous about even linking the names david hamilton and sally mann above to any webpages because what you can see is possibly inappropriate.

really melbourne city council?

i was going to write a post about the on-going censorship by this council, against young artists. but i can't be bothered, i haven't got time to go through all the archives trying to find pictures of this and that.

but just remember. the artist who had the palestine/israel installation. painted over.

the recent one, with the nude man and mickey mouse ears. stopped.

which of the above three am i most comfortable with? the first two. the ones where the images are connected to ideas and attitudes. do we not have freedom of thought?

the one i'm not that comfortable with is the nude man one. i don't know where it was displayed or where it was intended for display. if in the street, then i agree that people who don't want to see naked people in a public space shouldn't have to. if in a gallery, or a room, or even a little-used alley-way or lane, then it should be allowed. what the hull?

and when will it be over?

ps and the whole thing about john so never wanting to upset china shits me as well.

certain truths that must be faced:

1. i love my hot water bottle. love him. for he is bluey. mark II.

2. princess has started calling me dude.

3. your hair will not look or feel any different no matter how many wonderful and promising words are written on the shampoo bottle.

4. hello, my name is melbournegirl and i am a poached egg addict.

5. the gigi is famous? a stranger said hello to her on sunday as we walked st kilda. and used her name. and we didn't know her. blogger, peut-etre?


and finally...


6. watching the opening to simon townsend's wonderworld, it feels like i last watched it just the other night. this makes me feel a little bit happy and a little bit depressed.

who i want to be right now

i have always had a bit of a thang for john cusack. like the rest of the world. but because i'm a contemporary of his, my thing goes back to the first time i saw him in a movie.

and no, it wasn't say anything, the movie that people always cite as the movie they "discovered" and therefore for ever after owned john cusack.

it was the sure thing, in 1985, made a full 4 years before say anything. so you see, i own him.

but anyway. this post is more about the darling diablo cody than john. sort of. kind of. you see, she has gone from writing a blog, writing a book about being a stripper for a year, and then writing a screenplay for a movie that won academy awards a couple of months ago. i've been following her myspace page, and a recent offering was this:


Artist on Artist: John Cusack and Diablo Cody



there are just so many things i like about this video, this girl and of course, john.

1. the fact that they started chatting at some old function.

2. the fact that they stayed in touch. texting. calling. so sweet that he would do that.

3. the fact that she is wearing long, red socks and funny shoes, but she doesn't look try-hard.

4. the fact that she's got short hair at the nape of her neck, like me.

5. the fact that she mocks herself on her myspace page about the looks she gives the camera and that she fidgets in her chair like a romanian [attention-starved] orphan.

6. she's just so damn smart and quick.

7. he gives her a kiss at the end.

i think he likes her. the way he says "nice" after she describes her latest horror film project about a girl who literally consumes the men she seduces "she eats boys" is so telling.

and i want to be her.

it's official

i have less cellulite than mischa barton.

that is all.

come on pollsters. i need a few more.

so let's really get down to business, hey? there's a theme developing here, but the sample is still too small i have to admit.



i wish to prove my point that not only do collingwood indeed have the reputation of being the most-hated club, there are actual reasons beyond inter-generational-attitudes-inheritance; ie you saw a little tacker as above at the football, and he was giving the other team (or his own) the finger.

onto other matters:

annoying is:
... having to return a purchase to dobson's in glenferrie road. melburnians will know that glenferrie road can be as hard to travel as punt road.

interesting is:
... i'm sure there's a fight club in the park near here. on a sunday, late afternoon'ish. they don't go full on, but definitely, it's a fight club of sorts.

sad is:
... hearing about the young dog that got hit by a car and died on the weekend. i was told by the owner who was walking her remaining dog. sadness.

worrying is:
... the amount of jif cream cleaner dribbles on my funkoid grey exercise breeches.

worrying is also:
... HOW FREAKING FILTHY THE SHOWER WAS.

happiness is:
... the delish little salad i made for myself and ate just before. red salmon, a smidge of leftover rice, normal salad with a bit of fetta cheese crumbled, red onion slivers, few kalamata olives. salt. pepper. fresh thyme.

love is:
... I LOVE FRESH THYME. IF I HAD TO CHOOSE ONE HERB, IT WOULD BE THYME.

annoying is also:
... the amount of corniness in the west wing. forgive me, but i am a newbie, watching on dvd for the first time. I WAS OVERSEAS WHEN IT WAS ON, OKAY?

cute is:
... the way sam on west wing is trying not to fall for the escort girl/hooker.

yummy is:
... poached eggs. all the time. i love them.

worrying is also:
... reading recently that a doctor only ever eats quarter of an egg yolk at a time. he gives the rest to his dog. "let the dog have the heart attack" he quipped.

interesting is:
... reading the road by cormac mc carthy. i think i'm liking it more than no country, but you know what, it's reminding me of a stephen king story.

that's all for now. have to go to dobson's.

it's time

for another poll.

remember the last poll? about the bedtime-attire pecadilloes of bloggers, with particular focus on the under-pant wearing aspect thereof?

it was incredibly successful, with initial posts, follow-ups and a dissemination of results.

* * *


so here be the current question.

you know how everybody hates collingwood? and everybody hates their supporters?

if you disagree, then you are a collingwood supporter. but even you know that everybody else hates collingwood.

now i know this, and you know this, but a certain someone i live with does not seem to accept this. it was very hard tonight when he came home from the game against carlton, the most hated of rivals, to not smile and rub it in. i ended up doing so after really trying hard not to. there were crushed children's hearts involved as well. i waited until they were out of the room before i let my grin emerge. so what is it about collingwood losing that so thrills me? is it just me?

i don't believe so. people in the media perpetuate the hatred of collingwood, the bagging of the team and the supporters. even my dad, mild-mannered'ish and secure in the cats current domination can't help himself - he sneaks in a dig (to me, on the quiet) about collingwood being thugs. so i'm curious to know how widespread this really is. not that a blog-poll is anything but a small, and perhaps fairly skewed sample. but let's try, shall we?

please advise in the comments section the following:

1. which team do you support in afl. even if you don't give a rat's arse about football, there is a team, even deep within your psyche, which you are partial to. you know it's true.

actually, if it's NOT true, please advise. i may have to do some follow-up questioning.

2. having stated your team, if it's NOT collingwood, then please advise another team that you have a soft spot for. ie if your team has no chance to win the premiership, who would you like to win. we all have a fondness for other teams, and without biasing the study, i would suggest st. kilda is one of those teams.

3. if you would like to state outright that you hate collingwood and/or the supporters, please state why. there must be reasons. i want to try to tease out themes, ie is it generational perchance? are there personal reasons for this antipathy, were you sworn at by a toothless collingwood supporter when you were 6?

i think that's all. i may tweak as we go.

the spare room

in my mind, there are two sort of unpopular (at times) writers who emerged from australia. one is germaine greer and the other is helen garner. maybe unpopular is the wrong word. i guess i am trying to say that these two women seem to polarise people; people either love them or hate them, and firmly and unchangeably divided into camps, then argue for them or against them.

helen garner caused a lot of hullabaloo when her book the first stone was published. i remember standing at a party, drink in hand after reading - and thoroughly enjoying - this book with a small group of people. all of them were damning garner for the stance they perceived her to have taken with this book. all of them accused her of betraying her feminist sisters (ie the young women at the centre of the case) and, when i asked, all of them admitted to not having even read the book. from memory, there were a couple of women, and one man, and it was the man who was the most aggressively vocal in his anti-garner tirade.

i stood my ground and said that i'd read the book, and that if anyone came off badly in it is was helen herself, who seemed to be continually berating herself within the text, for her unkind feelings towards the girls and her wonderings - or suspicions - about why they wouldn't talk to her. she also agonised over the very issue of whether she was betraying the femininist "code" and seemed to leave it unresolved in her mind. i remember it as an honest and direct book, and being convinced that garner had really tried to do it to the best of her ability, and had wrestled with its complexities and been almost unhinged by it in some way. it was a book, i thought, surprisingly empty of judgment - she didn't seem to damn anyone, she was sincerely just trying to understand what happened, how it happened, and find the truth. she wrote about her difficulties with telling the story, and admitted it was one-sided because the young women wouldn't talk to her.

suddenly, liking helen garner became a kind of dangerous thing to do. not unlike saying that you like and admire germaine greer. everyone seems to either fear the greer, or love her. i want to resist getting into things germaine here, but suffice to say now i have finished on chesil beach, another very compelling book (but with a somewhat weak denouement) next on the list is shakespeare's wife. it's there, perched on the edge of my bedside table, waiting for me.

tonight.

but to the spare room. i read it in two days. i passed it to my mother. she read it in one. we are both big fans of garner's - going back years. my interest in her is buoyed by the fact that while she is my father's second cousin, i have never met her. i missed the funeral of my grandfather - i was overseas. should i feel shame at not regretting my inability to attend my grandfather's funeral as much as i regret not meeting helen garner on that day?

probably.

my father said to me 20 years ago, or more, when i first told him i was working on a story (a winsome and girlishly pathetic pirate romance, from memory) that he could get her phone number so i could call and see if she would read it. i'm so glad i didn't. that story wasn't a story - it was just some written down fantasy, exploring my love-lust for a certain english fop-singer who had a white line painted across his nose. best left behind.

so she's kind of like a mystery to me. she hovers there, in the family, distantly, but someone i feel i wish i knew. i would like to have met her once. maybe at my father's funeral. god i'm a bitch.

for me, the spare room, resonated with an awesome power. i have been the character helen, and her friend, nicola, was my mum. as i read the book, i made all the parallels in my mind. i didn't have the 3am sheet-washing or having to physically nurse her (only a couple of times did i have to help my mother get dressed, dried or wipe her bottom), but i had my mother live with me for 15 months one time, and the second time for about 6 months. i gave up my bed happily, i cooked and looked after her, taking her trays in bed, washing her clothes, ferrying her to peter mac. that was all easy. what was hard was dealing with the resentment, the anger, the rage that would build. and then the guilt - how could i be feeling like this when my poor, sick, cancer-stricken mother, with no hair, skin and bones, in pain, who gave me life, who gave me everything when i was growing up - how could i then repay her like this?

it was a more loaded relationship than the one the helen character in the book has with her friend. but alot of the emotions were the same. like the anger. like the suspicion that your loved one is being taken advantage of by charlatan health-gurus. my mother told me that she went to a clinic much like the one described in the book - the theodore institute - which actually had a fucking tepee thing for smoking you.

but i didn't want to go in there, she said.

oh my god, i said, i didn't know about that place.

the man there, the doctor, he was like she described in the book.

oh my GOD.

and the vitamin c, they wanted to inject me with it, but i didn't really want that, and they were too expensive, so i just took the tablets.

for me, for us i suspect, i was hard having the mother-daughter role reversed. i didn't want to be the grown up one, i wanted her to stay the same. always there for me, always the patient, kind, supportive mother that she'd always been. i didn't want to have to be selfless, and swallow my annoyances when her particular personality foibles bothered me. i went through a divorce, i had to work and earn money and rush around after a toddler. cook. clean.

and i worried that my mum would die. we had several crises - she had a stem cell transplant and wound up in icu for days. she got listeria and battled that with no immune system to speak of. she got a bad knee from the cancer spreading and it wasn't diagnosed or treated promptly enough.

but mostly i worried that i'd damaged our relationship beyond repair with my moodiness, and my snippiness, and my sharp tongue. that my mother's unconditional love might have become conditional upon the fact that i be nice to her, that i look after her with kindness, that i have compassion for a woman who was sick. isn't that the natural reaction to have when faced with the sickness of your mother?

at times the compassion was hard to feel. and even harder to show.

mum survived and now the cancer is gone. amazingly our relationship has gone back to mother and daughter, the way it was. but we have all learnt things. about compassion. about communication. we had the hard conversations, the ones you absolutely should have if you think a person you most love is going to maybe, possibly, might happen - no, surely it's not possible, yes it is - die. the words have to be said, where you tell them you love them, and this one is the hardest, that you will really really miss them when they aren't here anymore. usually this bit is prefaced with "whenever you do die, even if it's in 20 years" and accompanied with a wryly brave smile, because you are both thinking "it might be alot earlier than that" but you both choose to ignore that and pretend.

reading helen garner's novel made me think, fuck, perhaps i'm not the only one to have felt like this when caring for a loved one. maybe it's common? maybe it's normal?

you see, there's so much written about the sick people, not much about the carers. that's why i loved this book. because it was real, and it was true. and as for the arguments re fiction and non-fiction:

it just doesn't matter. i'm not interested. when something makes me feel, or validates my feelings, that's enough for me.

HE HASN'T FUCKED IT UP!!!!!!

he said it in china.

he said it to chinese.

he said it in chinese.


this was the best thing i could have seen on the front page of the age this morning.

the man has not fucked it up. he is not caving. he is not pussy-footing. he is not tap-dancing. he is not side-stepping. he is not demurring. he is not faltering. he is not puncey. he is not timid.

so i guess we'll see what kind of diplomat he really is now.

exciting times, friends.

i put papaya there...

my looney bun is fine benny lava

some nostalgia

i remember seeing this on tv when i was a kid.

the song has never left me.

i am amazed to find this on youtube.

the power of the almighty tube.

awesome.

Really?

st. kilda today

is there something really different about whether you live north or south of the river?

i know the cooler young people live north of the river.

but i reckon the cool older people live south. in st. kilda.

i hate st. kilda on a weekend. and even a thursday night.

give me st. kilda on a wednesday morning about 10am, when the grand old dame is empty of tourists from other suburbs, and the dirty footpaths can be trod by me and my dog.

or on a school day, in the afternoon, about 5 o'clock when you can be coming back from the park, and be stopped by an old man on a door step in a back street. he is wearing a singlet and has skinny arms and legs, which poke out of baggy shorts.

hello, he says. what's your name, son?

small boy looks at me.

i smile and tell the old man.

you any good with that footy, son?

yep, you bet, he's good all right, i say.

you gunna play for any league when you're older?

small boy looks at me, then at the old man

collingwood, he says in a small voice.

argh, no! you need to play for geelong!

that's what i think, i say.

anyway son, you make sure you don't let anyone push you around, you have to learn to stand up for yourself.

the old man is emphatic about that.

we say goodbye and the small boy with me asks if i know the old man.

nope, i say. i just like to talk to people if they talk to me, especially old people.

small boy is confused, i can see that. after all the lessons of not talking to strangers etc. i can see his brain spinning.

you can't talk to people on your own, but when you're with me, you can.

he accepts this logic and sees that it is right.

and he was right, i say, that bit about standing up for yourself. it's something we've all got to learn.

* * *

but this morning, i am with white dog, not small boy. we skirt the grand prix mess [shakes fist and curses] and walk along canterbury road. then we cut in along the street with a hotel on one corner and a bike shop on the other; we walk down to the beach. then back along towards st. kilda to the place where the dogs can swim. year round, any time of day, off lead.

it is magical.

witness:

* * *

after the water we cut back up through catani gardens, the grass is so dry. the notice for the laughter club is in the bushes at the base of the rotunda. the meetings are every saturday at 10am.

we walk up fitzroy street. street cafe is behind us (best seafood pasta and great service) as is the spanish restaurant, can't remember the name, but enjoyed it years ago.

they are putting the tables out at di stasio. gigi makes a beeline for a man walking towards us and gets in front of him. i tell her to watch where she's going, and as i walk on, i feel the man thinks i have just shouted at him.

there's a man with hoodie on the nod on the steps of the prince of wales. the 711 does not have the annoying "street performer" out the front, who is frenetic and quite threatening when you walk past in the evening with an ice-cream and kids.

there is an old man with his pants too high, and another hooded junkie coming towards us. we are in the badlands, the bit in the middle where it's most interesting, where there's still a little bit of colour and grunge and you can have an ice cream at cold rock and there'll be an aboriginal family sitting there wanting to give your dog left-over pizza crusts, and you talk to the kids, and your kids talk to their kids, and they all pat the dog - the great leveller - and that this can happen in the city is to me great.

the george is shut. and the underneath pavement bar is advertising for staff. there is no witty blackboard out the front saying "drink more beer" or "beer is life" or anything like that. [note: this blackboard shtick has been copied all over; this place did it first, and it was the manager phil years ago who instigated it. i don't think he's still the manager.]

people at the st kilda grocery bar, always are, i don't like it too trendy even though i have to admit i have been there though not recently and i had an exchange with the very scary alannah hill, who suggested that her then-toddler son had taken a shining to my slightly older princess, yeah, they should totally get married, "older woman" giggle giggle, etc.

gigi stops for a drink at cafe banff, they always have water out the front. banff has gone down-market but in a good way and i reckon is the only place, the ONLY PLACE on fitzroy street which has cultivated a north-river atmosphere. almost. it is really cheap, good food, but the wine comes in tumblers. i'm trying to deal with this.

then there's d. chirico with those gorgeous salesgirls, kate is the cutest and the sweetest, she has red hair normally but she's dyed it a light-choc brown, and she also has the best dresses.

then up past the japanese restaurant, struggling now i suspect - it used to be packed 8 years ago when it was the new kid on the block; now there's always the same man sitting outside drinking wine.

the salon where they wax you; you can choose to either have a spunky turkish girl, deriye, or a man. i saw a man sitting at the counter this morning; he is chubby with funky specs and bald. when i had deriye working on me, oh too long ago now, must make an appointment ey? she said he's a great waxer, when i asked whether women booked a session with him. i just don't think i could go there, he's not a gynaecologist after all.

then we have the big three: a taglio, with the best pizza by the slice, and the best blue-swimmer crab with a bit of red chilli, garlic and thin spaghetti. then bar corvino which has come up in my estimation - used to be bad, bad, bad. i had a bad breakfast there once years ago, my girlfriend had mouldy orange cake one night after the movies and my mother always talks about the time we were in there, and they had possum on the menu. personally, i don't think possum on a menu is a bad thing, but she obviously does.

next to bar corvino there is bar roy. i don't like bar roy - it's cold and impersonal with plastic chairs and a big kind of cavernous space. but the biggest reason i don't like it is it used to be cleopatra's, where you could get ace lebanese food and the owners would all make a fuss over princess and give her free baklava, and she would run in to say hi to ozzie.

at the moment, however, you can go in and have a drink with two corvettes. or were they lambourghinis? i don't remember, i don't even know how to spell those cars.

then there is the new chinese restaurant, mah jong, with impressive decor and an even more impressive review in the age a couple of months ago which mentioned that the young owner was waiting on tables. i will go there one day but somehow it looks just a little too new at the moment.

and then soon we are home, where the gigi gets rinsed under the hose and parked out on the balcony to dry off.

and i eat rice with mushroom salad.

channelling elaine benes for a minute

remember that seinfeld episode when elaine thought that a cafe owner was only hiring large-breasted waitresses? and it turned out they were all his daughters.

well, has anyone else noticed that baker d.chirico only hires sales-girls who wear floral, 1940s dresses and who are all really quite pretty, with rabelaisian hair?

there's none of this:

i'm not saying it's a bad thing. just saying is all.

the black dog

was it ernest hemingway who talked of the black dog? it was his depression, and i wonder if he imagined it lying at his feet under that table in havana, or at the door of harry's bar in venice. sitting patiently, waiting while ern finished his cigar or pernod or toasted cheese sandwich.

i don't have a black dog. my thing is a monkey, that sits on my right shoulder, and incessantly chatters, and tugs at my hair. mischievous little shit.

how do i find a way to quieten the monkey?

my days, my waking hours, are filled with all the normal stuff that people have to do to get through their lives. there are things to do with food, washing clothes, tidying houses, vaccuuming floors, picking up papers, making sure there's only one green guide on the coffee table. changing bed linen, collecting mail, walking up and down stairs. supermarket. butcher. baker. candlestick maker.

then there's the doctor appointments, school assemblies, dentist, vet. there's the friends, lunch, dinner, text, phone, email. there's family, as above. but even more intense.

the kids, three of them with their own realities, their own egocentricities, their own special characters; flaws and delights.

all the relationships must be maintained. you can't just throw your hands up in the air and say "fuck it."

but against all this, or with all this, there is a multi-layered and many-machined grinding of activity that is my brain.

this is where the monkey comes in. he sits there on my shoulder, and feeds me the thoughts. he picks them up out of the air, pops then through my ear into my brain. and there they start spinning. so on top of all that other stuff you have to do, pay bills, have sex, watch quality television on dvd - oh my god hands up who has watched love my way? - so on top of all that, i have my brain going a million miles an hour, jumping across topics, flitting all over the place.

it's too much.

i've tried meditation. i've tried yoga. i've tried pounding at the gym.

i can't say none worked, but an hour at meditation is good. i can clear my mind and try to, really try to, keep things quiet and calm. but then i walk out and go head on into the rest of my life.

i have to find a way to make the monkey still.

does this sound like i'm going mad? really, i'm not going mad, i'm just waking up.

every day i am a little more awake.

the hangover hell that is ikea

what is worse than going to ikea on a sunday?

GOING TO IKEA ON A SUNDAY WITH A HANGOVER.

what is worse than going to ikea on a sunday with a hangover?

GOING THROUGH IKEA TWICE ON A SUNDAY WITH A HANGOVER.

i had to go back and get the fake peonie roses from the display vase - yep, lifted them out of the vase in the show room, grabbed the label/price thing too, then went all the way back through, lined up again with the million other people, and got them. 5 very pretty fake peonies for $20. usually the nice looking ones are almost $20 per stem, which is what has always put me off.

it was worth it, they look gorge.

hope you are all ok.

i'm never drinking again. what a stupid fucking night, i'm ashamed of myself.

and the oscar goes to...

 

















worst nose - owen wilson. you know it's true and he nose it's true too.

best gown - tilda swinton. i mean look at it. it's as beautiful and mysterious and silky dark as loch ness.

best speech - diablo cody. at the end, just going "gah" and having to run off. i notice that she seemed to ditch the spesh shoes that were organised for her, and gone for flats. good on her, you go girl, don't sell your soul to the hollywood man, etc.

funniest presenter - anne hathaway. she was better than steve carrell.

most delicious female - marion cotillard. nice frock too.

people who you know you would have a fantastic time in bed with - jonah hill and seth rogan. together even. it would just be too funny you wouldn't even get to the sex which would be just fine because you'd be laughing too much and that would be better really than even being there with pitt and clooney, say.

worst gown - jennifer hudson.

worst boobage - jennifer hudson.

best richard wilkins brush-off - nicole kidman.

most nervous - katherine heigl. come on, the first rule of being nervous in front of a crowd is NEVER ADMIT IT. i would have been more relaxed than her.

best lover of everyone, and smiler and emoter - laura linney. was she the only one they could get the camera on who was smiling for most of the event?

people i would have wanted to hang out with afterwards - daniel day-lewis, tilda swinton, marion cotillard and javier bardem. come on, admit it, you know it would be great.