searching for pics on "minority groups" on a stock photo website

this is for a presentation i have to do. and this is what i found:











there just aren't that many guys who drive around in blue cars laughing - minority group



there aren't that many punks left in the world - minority group





not many bald men who like to hug - minority group





not many women who wear pantyhose with runners - a definite minority group

 









not many pregnant women want to pose naked any more - minority group




not that many men in blue shirts anymore, they are an endangered species - minority group

now i can sleep tonight

glad to read this. let's hope it gets buried now.

http://www.theage.com.au/news/national/pm-rejects-head-scarf-ban/2005/08/29/1125167595286.html

new orleans - the wrath of god - and the hijab, the new target of some fucking right-wing liberals

i'm sorry. i'm not a religious person. i don't believe in god. but i'm not against people who do without extremity. i don't believe in a literal god, i believe in a faith that is constructed by humans. the religious books are all pretty creative stories, and they contain a lot of sound values. you know, like don't kill and that sort of thing. ultimately i believe the power of me. and nature.

BUT if i was a religious person right now i'd be thinking that the highest category level 5 hurricane approaching new orleans at the moment was something to do with god punishing the americans for their shitfulness of late. or rather the american government's shitfulness
(yes, but who voted them in?)

the mayor of new orleans has ordered a mandatory evacuation of the city. the population is over a million people. the city is below sea level and they believe that the water will come over the walls. the roads are gridlocked as people try to get out.

the potential effects of the storm are being described as catastrophic.

so i think how lucky we are here in australia. again. this is something i think whenever there is some terrible thing that happens overseas.

and then i remember the article in the paper this morning about the call by certain liberal politicians for the hijab to be banned in government schools. when this happened in france, it made me shakingly angry. this morning, again, i am furious that it has even been mooted.

this used to be a country where we could feel proud to be its citizens. i hate hate hate the feeling that is out there. the intolerance, the suspicion and fear. it's everything i don't want this country to be.

hopefully it will die in the arse. but somehow i don't think john howard will stamp it out. because secretly he will agree. he would think they are unattractive and oppressive and all other manner of chauvinistic and backward 1950s australian male thoughts. and it's not aussie. it's not dinkum. it's not normal. this is what he would think.

i hope he proves me wrong.

i know cultural relativism has its negatives - there has to be a point where a reasonable thinking person will say, hang on, that's not right and it shouldn't happen here (for example, female circumcision, honour killings, etc). but it's not enough to say you can't wear a headscarf at school here because it's an icon of defiance? that is so fucking misguided and wrong.

sorry for the bad writing. i am so angry my brain is not working properly.

walkabout

last week in the paper I read about walkabout. it was on at acmi, a cinema centre at federation square. david gulpilil was at the premiere, I think. I skim-read the article, getting all excited and decided I had to take princess to see this wonderful movie.

I saw walkabout, the movie, when I was about her age or a little older. I remember not understanding much of it, but being impressed by all of it.

i wanted to share with her this movie, which was a part of my childhood. along with the drover’s wife, a short film, walkabout signified the beginnings of consciousness in my child-brain. it was this movie that introduced me to the idea of the Other – difference.

Today I happened upon the piece of paper I had scribbled the screening details on.

I called the ticket office.

MelbourneGirl – hi. I’m calling about ‘Walkabout’. Can you tell me the rating?

Bookings Girl – I’m not sure we have a classification for it

MG – maybe it came out before the classification system [laughs politely]

Bookings Girl - let me just check

[leaves the phone for a few minutes]

Bookings Girl – um, we are using a General Admission

MG – okay, I want to bring my almost-nine-year-old daughter. Also, does it start at eight exactly?

BG – yep, usually.

[MG and Princess get on the tram at 6.19pm. It takes 45 minutes to get to Fed Square. We go to the ticket office]

MG – can I have two to Walkabout please?

Ticket Girl – sure

[usual routine, MG hands over plastic, blah de blah]

[MG picks up high-end DL promo card which reads:

“Chambermade’s Walkabout. Richard J Frankland’s stage and screen response to the Nicolas Roeg film. Written, composed and directed by Richard J Frankland, after the film script by Nicholas Roeg and play scri…”

MG – what are we seeing here? Isn’t it the film?

TG – no it’s a stage, multi-media play

[MG’s jaw drops]

MG – what??????!!!!!!

Princess – mummy, what’s wrong

MG – nothing sweetie, I thought it was the movie but it’s a play

TG – do you want me to cancel the tickets?

MG – um

[we have caught a tram, it’s late on a SCHOOL night, I am the bad parent keeping her child out late, all in the cause of culture and learning]

MG – no, we’ll still go

[Princess and MG walk around town eating maxi bon ice creams. Princess keeps stirring her mother, asking about how long until the ‘film’ starts, and laughing. She makes quote signs in the air when she says film. It is all very amusing. MG laughs indulgently but feels like a dick. ette.]

Eight o’clock sees us in the queue.

Princess – there are no other kids here

MG – well you’ll be the most sophisticated child after seeing this stage play

Princess – you mean “film” [and she does the hand quote thing.]

We get into the theatre. There is an orchestra on stage. The stage is covered with red sand, there are some boulders, some fire wood.

The production is wonderful. I relive the movie anyway. I cry and cry. When I said before how I didn’t really understand the movie, now I do. It filled in the gaps.

There is a scene, at the beginning, where the father takes the two children into the desert. When we were on the tram I had told Princess about the story.

MG – there are two children, an older girl and a younger boy. They’re in the outback. I can’t remember how they get there, but then they meet an indigenous boy who helps them and they make friends. I couldn’t remember how it ended either.

So, the scene. The father asks his daughter to get the food out for lunch. She spreads the picnic rug and readies the hamper. Behind her, the father pulls out a gun. He points it at her. She is kneeling there, vulnerable in her school uniform. Somehow it all goes wrong, or right, and the two children escape and the father kills himself. Princess was recoiling physically in her chair; her back straight and head up to the ceiling in a grimace. She couldn’t watch it.

Princess – what’s happening?

MG – I’ll tell you later, I’ll explain later.

And at the end, the aboriginal boy sings himself to death. Watching the movie, I probably just thought he’d gone mad, with no thought, no attempt to see that it’s never that simple. Tonight showed me that he had become as lost as the children, he had strayed too far from his country, that there were no songlines for him to follow.

In the tram on the way home, Princess sat on my lap and snuggled her chin in underneath my chin. I clutched her to me.

MG – did you learn something tonight?

[Princess nods her head]

Princess – I liked everything except the bit with the father.

I know she misses her own dad. What does her mind make of a man who would kill his own children? How can she hope to understand that?

For her, this is the most disturbing thing she saw tonight.

For me, it was the statistics screened at the end of the show. The numbers of black deaths in custody in this country, the age expectancy, infant mortality, levels of incarceration. It was the way the school girl and the black boy on the brink of manhood, on walkabout for his initiation, talk at cross purposes, don’t understand each other. Completely miss each other. They see a shooting star. She says how romantic it is, and starts to see him as a potential lover. He sees it as meaning that someone has died, perhaps from his tribe, and because he is away, he cannot be there for the mourning and burial. This separates him from his kin, and is the beginning of him becoming lost.

We are so many of us lost.
My heart aches.

melbourne taxi drivers and other stuff

i heard on the radio this morning that a young woman had thought she was being abducted by a taxi driver as he drove her around for two hours, not following her directions.

it turned out, he couldn't understand what she was saying.

i read in the paper that a model has been arrested in indonesia with two pills wrapped in a twist of paper. she said she didn't know what they were. that someone just gave them to her.
and she kept them? and she was going to maybe take them?

i shake my head and i boil the kettle.

and when is winter going to be OVER.

ps confession - i bought andrew morton's princess diana book on special at target. i think she and jemima are sisters. or were. what do you say?

anyone got any gossip? i'm bored.

who is player number 6 for west coast?

because today i thought i'd like to peel off his thigh tape with my teeth. not in a 'fuck you, you're beating my team and i want to shred you with my bare nails' way but in a 'you have very nice thighs and i'd like to get my tongue on them' way
this, however, was just a mild distraction during the game at kardinia park.
firstly, it was warm. i took off my coat [which is slightly puffy but thankfully doesn't 'swoosh' a la george costanza]. i had been expecting rain, in fact it was forecast. didn't rain. not a drop.
then, during warm up practice, the balls were raining left right and centre. i think i have mentioned before my dad's seats are right behind geelong goals. several years ago, he got a ball to the face, care of gary ablett. and i got a ball in my lap which spilled my beer. NOT THAT TYPE OF BALL! and not from gary.
well today i got a ball to the left breast, care of some wc fuck. dad also got a ball to the lip, which came off the seat behind, and after dad's lip, hit princess on the head. the ball, not dad's lip. so our family's list of warm-up ball contact grows.
it was all a bit much for princess and her protective mother.
there was an old lady cowering behind the fence right at the front. she was squatted right down holding a cushion over her head. the man next to us told us that last week she got hit by a warm-up ball and had to be stretchered out. no shit. but there she was, back on the old horse, even if she was terrified.
then a frisson ran through the crowd. three mighty large telegraphic lenses were pointed right at us.
'they're getting a close up of my breast,' i thought.
but no. the word was gary senior was in the crowd. and there he was, in his old place in the hickey stand. looking shifty in shades.
the game started, it was great. occasionally i was distracted yet again by tape. it's funny, the leg bandages don't really affect me. it's definitely the tape that does it. leg and shoulder.
i also noticed stephen king [no.1 for geelong] is mighty fine. plus he's a really good writer. he had shoulder tape.
each time geelong kicked a goal i looked at my dad's face. now, roger has 'high colour' at the best of times. but with each goal, his complexion darkened and ruddied to a puce of ecstasy. he would grin at me and give me the thumbs up. so old school. so gorgeous.
but there's something odd about my dad. he is the list man to end all list men. on the kitchen bench, right here, is a three-item list of his. this is it, verbatim:
shot gun
bread maker?
find my Trinity tankard + glass whisky decanter

do you find anything strange about this list?
to end the evening, princess and i had a "bratz off"
this is where we each chose three bratz dolls and then dressed them according to our individual taste. then we got dad to select his top three. princess won first place for some sassy little tokyo a go-go, multicoloured-braids, miniskirt outfit, then her cloe came second with a funky get up with knee boots and legwarmers. my jade came third with her snow outfit which had a mini kilt and black ankle boots.
i could have sworn dad would go for my sophisticated jade with mint green evening dress, or my angelina in her frilled man's tux shirt belted over plaid low rider flares.
there's no accounting for some tastes.

down the bellarine

we are away for a mini break as brigit jones would say. is it bridgit or brigit? whatever.
with a d.
we drove down out of melbourne to a little sleepy place by the water where my dad has a holiday house. it's sleepy in winter, crazy in summer. what a change to when we were kids.
the weather was filthy as we drove, my girl and i. recently i've started letting her sit in the front seat. we have far too many conversations where she asks me again and again whether the air bag would suffocate her if we had a smash. all i can say is i don't know. and that we won 't have a smash.
'do you want to play a game?' she asked [eye spy, or 20 questions]
'no sweetie' i said 'i have to concentrate [on not killing us]. the road is really bad and the traffic is mad'
p-platers overtook us, all spoiler and gutsy engines.
we made it.
we went to the pub.
i had an unsatisfying blue grenadier with chips and salad. grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
now everyone is asleep.
the dad in his room, where he has his radio next to the bed, ready to turn on at 6am.
the princess in our room, with her teddy and snoozy blanket, and hottie.
the gigilove in her room [laundry] with her chewed up teddy.
off to the football tomorrow. to see geelong [beat/lose to] west coast eagles.
this is our annual kardinia park pilgrimage. for my dad.
he cries when they win. he laughs when geelong kicks goals. my dad has the loudest laugh. seriously, people will turn around in their seats, drag their eyes away from the action on the ground to see where the noise is coming from.
dad's seats are right behind the geelong goals. once gary ablett kicked a ball into dad's face while he was warming up. it broke dad's glasses and he had to go and see the nurse in sick bay and get a bandaid. we felt special and blessed. once a ball fell in my lap and splashed my beer all over the girl in front of me. last year, geelong beat brisbane, the sun shone and we danced on our seats. not really. tomorrow i pray it doesn't rain. and i hope they win for dad's sake.
carn the cats
convincing aren't i?

my life is measured out in bagels [apols to ts eliot]

i have been sick. it hit me like a train on Tuesday morning. i couldn't get out of bed to start with, but then HAD to so i could get PSP off to school. i couldn't even get dressed so just pulled on bad tracksuit pants, tucked my nightie inside them so it looked all bunched around the waist [did i give a fuck?] and then drove her the short distance, trying not to crash because i couldn't really open my eyes properly.

then came back and got into bed with a fresh hottie. i felt so bad i couldn't even read much. i lay there, feeling sorry for myself, pissed off that i was not able to work [the transcription machine was sitting in the other room, hunched evilly on my table, laughing at me] i wasn't hungry [this is me near-death, dear reader] and i thought back to how smug i had been just a short time before as it seemed the dreaded melbourne plague had struck down person after person, and left my little household untouched. the dark angel would wing past our sleeping house, carrying her bad germs on to others. not visiting us.

i had to mop my floors before and still i was weak. so weak. so pathetic.

usually i am so robust it probably sickens others. i am a typical saggitarian. i find it hard to be around weak and ill people [steep learning curve there in compassion 101 with my mum], i can't understand when people are not bursting with energy and joie de vivre.

but i know when i'm feeling better because then, other more normal things start to invade my mind

like bagels

across the road and down from me is a shop. a bakery. but not just any bakery. it is a place run by an israeli family, and they make the most divine PROPER bagels, as well as a bunch of other stuff. there's a whole range of pastries and biscuits - baked cheese cake, cheese blintzes, chocolate babka, special bread, [including 'challa' which i mispronounced most shamefully and most non-jewishly the first time i bought it.]

then next door they've got a little eat-in restaurant. there's tuna and egg salad, the chicken schnitzel, meat balls, soups.

i hadn't had a bagel for days, so i walked down and got two [with sesame seeds] and a cheese blintz. i had never had a cheese blintz before. it was good.

then other things started entering my mind. like, i should write a blog. why are my white hand-towels always so dirty looking, even when they've just been washed? why is my hair so bouffy? where the fuck is my fatboy slim cd? why is everything in the newspaper so depressing? what should i cook for dinner?

this is the only way i can cope with today - break everything down into tiny bits. meditate on the small stuff. everything else is too big and hurts my head.

so here i am, transcribing machine turned on and ready. here's a picture of her, isn't she cute?

















note the hello kitty headphones. the ones i got from the shop are like forceps that kill my head after about 20 seconds

i'm hungry

who’s killing the great chefs of europe was a movie that impressed me muchly when i was young. it was about food, it featured several beautiful european cities, and best of all it had jacqueline bisset* in it.

bits that I remember:

* the bombe alaska that exploded
* the pressed duck

that’s it. and the chefs were being assassinated one by one, dispatched in the manner of their signature dish. hence, whichever chef it was who did the pressed duck had his head crushed in a, yep you guessed it, a duck press.
the bombe alaska was jacqueline’s signature dish, plus I seem to remember she was a tv cook? [a forerunner of today’s tv chefs]. and the murderer had planted a real bomb somehow in it while she was cooking on camera. not sure how that happened come to think of it, because i think she made it from scratch on-air.

anyway this movie perhaps sparked my interest in all things food.

while thinking about preparing a list of 10 turn ons and offs all to do with food, I realised it was too one-dimensional and would be an absolute insult to food to take such a simple approach. food demands better treatment. what you find sexy in someone I can just about squeeze into ten, but not food. no, THAT’S serious.

therefore I have taken a different approach and made groupings:

items I truly love, though not necessarily on their own

oysters – tasmanian not sydney rock. the latter can be too high in toxins.

ice cream – current fave is the streets traditional choc chip

mangoes

blue castello cheese

danish feta cheese

spring onions

red onions

real bagels

good olives, be they kalamata, green, stuffed, etc. cannot stand spanish olives.

blueberries

avocado

cherries but only from a certain tree on the mornington peninsula

good italian cheese, like Grana Panado or Parmigiano Reggiano
[see this cheese place]
red chillies
greek-style yoghurt, plain, thick and creamy

tinned RED salmon. forget pink, and medium-red or whatever it is.

almost all vegetables except not that fond of okra

continental parsley

freshly-made popcorn

heavy-duty, grained or sour-dough bread

garlic

vodka [oh sorry, that’s not a food. luckily I am creating a subgroup of alcohol. food and alcohol go together. just like alcohol goes with talking, sitting, watching tv, going out, having fun with friends and family. breathing.]

now some subgroups:

processed foods I love:
* kettle plain chips
* potato gems
* flakey sea salt

foods I love which require some preparation:
baked beetroot
nicely cooked fresh fish [white flesh] or salmon. but the fillets, not the steak cut.
mushrooms cooked in butter with a little salt

now the neutral foods:
I know you’ll think I’m crazy but I am not that partial to pizza. sorry.

also curly parsley. it’s alright, but prefer the flat-leaved.

another one you won’t believe. chicken breast. to me it’s just the rubbish part of a chicken.

cereal

some meals I love:

> soft poached eggs on good toast
> spaghetti marinara [a really good seafood pasta is to be had here]
> a really good salad is hard to find when out, the best are made at home. they are heaven, for example salade nicoise, or a green salad with fetta cheese [danish] tossed through, a good rice salad…

> soups of all descriptions. love them with some cheese stirred through.

> Turkish food

> Japanese food

> Italian food

> a roast chicken with all the trimmings. [yes, and use of the indefinite article ‘a’ here DOES mean one whole one for myself. No only joking, I will share. You can have all the breast. Just an aside, one of Nigella “Use heaps of oil and butter, don’t worry about your hips, thighs and tummy, but I’m a goddess with a beautiful face so it doesn’t matter if I happen to be fat” Lawson’s mini-recipes is this:

> cook some plain spaghetti which you toss through all the scrapings and herbs and hot fat that you find at the bottom of your roasting pan once the chicken is cooked. You take out the chicken first obviously. Add some parsley and salt, or not. Eat. I have done this once. Gloriously decadent, but again, not something you do every week. [Or month. Or year even.]

> bagel with cream cheese, smoked salmon, capers and thinly-sliced red onion. oh my god, if I could, I’d be getting a stiffy right now.

> bolognaise sauce cooked my way on pasta or sometimes on rice. with a dollop of greek yoghurt. it is heaven. sheer heaven.

> a good steak – mignon or porterhouse [a rare treat]

> a tray of vegies baked in the oven with whole garlic in the casings and lots of olive oil. then tipped over rice. sea salt. eat.

> the best pasta – spaghetti, olive oil, garlic and parsley. and the variations, a bit of blue grenadier and chilli. or some prawns. or some flaked fresh salmon.

> a good spaghetti carbonara. definitely a rare treat but so decadent.

carbs in order of preference [these are my friends] :
1st best-friend = pasta
2nd best-friend = rice
3rd best-friend = bread
4th best-friend = potatoes

restaurants I want to eat at before I die:
flowerdrum

food I want to try before I die:
haggis
truffles in some form
fugu

what I don’t need to eat before I die [ie, ever]

witchetty grubs
deep fried tarantula [ I was considering it before I saw it on Survivor. That made up my mind]
honeyed ants/grasshoppers
and finally the hates:
> bad potato or pasta salads, you know the ones with the cheap mayonnaise. I just will not eat them.
> the orange part of scallops.
> badly-cooked eggplant
> badly-cooked rice
> offal of most descriptions
> margarine/soft spread butter
>overcooked pasta

PS You’ll notice an absence of sweets. I also appreciate a good baked cheese-cake, plus other desserts. And there is no chocolate listed. That is because desserts don’t rule my life. For me it is savoury all the way.
And finally, the faithful companion to food:
martini – vodka only. gin makes me cry. plus a tiny bit of dry vermouth, shake and pour into the largest martini glass available. there have to be as many olives on the tooth-pick as you can get on. I have found four is usually the max. and they have to be stuffed. the can’t ever be stone ones.

wine – usually white

champagne - not too cheap but to tell the truth i can't taste the difference between the really expensive stuff and the $15 bottle

beer – just the local stuff

coffee – espresso or percolated or plunged. café au lait is wonderful. heat the milk in a pan and add to the strong coffee. this is the only coffee I have with sugar and it has to be partnered with a sweet pastry of some sort. for me, coffee is never, ever of the instant variety. I can do without. yes, I’ll put up with the headache, thank you very much.

* check here for jacqueline's impressive movie list. she was a '70s darling with this one being the best one.
** check here for a nice site on movies that feature food. something that really appeals to moi. though they could have included the thief, the cook etc, chocolat, oliver, 9 1/2 weeks, Tess of the d'Urbevilles.

part 2 conclusion to yesterday's drama

here is what happened.
I’m sorry if it’s a let down and it certainly is not as exciting as some of the suggestions you made [fluffy, why didn’t I think of that. I could have easily rigged that up “just in case”.]
actually you made me realise i really should just post a picture of the woman. i found it on the hocking-stuart site:








and in spite of the gigipic from yesterday, here is she and me







okay, so now you can imagine it better.
so we are standing there, she has said to me “you have a dog don’t you?”
and I say “no”
and she shows me the piece of paper, and everything slows right down, and it’s like the air has become clear jelly and my arm pushes through it to take the paper, and my skin starts to prickle
and I look at it, and I go:
“no.”
the second "no" went up a little at the end, like a question, as if I was puzzled that there it was in black and white, such an unthinkable thing, that someone would be accusing me of having a dog, when there is obviously such a lack of dog-presence on the premises.
it was so pathetically transparent.
what was written on the paper was a note from the last REW [ the one who left to have a baby and who told me she would pretend she never knew about the dog, the one who I want to rot in hell, and her bloddy baby too]
[did I just say that?]
on the paper was: “tenants ok. they have a dog now.”
all I could do was the bill clinton defence. deny. deny. deny. but at least he used full sentences and I’m sure his skin didn’t prickle and his armpits remained dry and his air did not turn to jelly.
you see because he has a long history of being a lying prick, whereas I am a nice person.
she didn’t say anything, muttered something but i couldn't hear it over the pounding waves in my head and the buzz of heat. it was a terrible moment.
she knew I was lying, I knew she knew I was lying. and she didn’t say anything.
the thing is, my mum and I had spoken about “what if she asks about the dog?” a couple of weeks earlier. we had decided what I should say if she somehow asked:
“oh the dog didn’t work out, so she’s up at my aunt’s place at woodend”
[ i have read that to lie well you mix the lie with some truth]
but I panicked, and completely freaked out.
so then we continued on with the inspection, and she was talking about HER dog, blah de blah, and I felt it was a trap to make me think “oh she has a dog, she loves her dog, she is dog sympathetic so perhaps I will confess, she’ll understand”
but I didn’t. how could i just turn it all around.
when she walked outside I was sure she was looking down, searching for dog hairs. her nose was twitching, trying to sniff the poo that she KNEW must be there somewhere. she looked at the scuffled dirty semi-diggings around the edge of the grass. she saw the pot plant with the hastily scooped-back-in dirt.
back in the house, she said she wanted to test the smoke detectors. I told her they should be fine, I’d just changed both batteries.
“I still need to test them” she said
“Fine I said”
“just get out of my house” I thought
“I need something long to press them” she said
“try my nose” I thought
"ok I'll get a broom" I said
I went to the laundry and got the broom. I started walking back with it, then saw the white dog hairs all over the bristles, lifting up into the air as i walked.
I returned to the laundry and changed the broom for a rake – thank god for that rake!!! Thank god I was too lazy to put it back into the garage and it’s been in my laundry for the last two weeks. that rake was a gift from god.
smoke detectors were fine.
in an effort to put her off the dog trail, I told her I’ve got a property in st kilda that I’m renting out, and I’m not happy with those agents, and I’m thinking of changing agents, do you manage properties down that way? etc etc. like: I’m a landlord too, I’m not just some scuzzy liar hiding my dog from you.
finally she went.
I sat there with head in hands, arm pits dripping.
then I drove to my friend’s place who was babysitting the gigi. we had a coffee. I debriefed, telling her perhaps I should call NREW and confess.
she advised me not to. to just leave it. then her sister and bro-in-law arrived. he is a minister. so I sought his guidance, though I be not a religious girl.
he said the sweetest words:
“don’t do anything”
so that was good
I slept well last night, no dreams as I expected.
and that’s the end of the story. for now.
I am waiting for some sort of spot raid, letter in the mail saying “I know you lied, move out” and it is just all a bit of a worry.
PS Aleks this DID happen. I am not making it up.

bad start to the week - part 1

ok, last night i had a dream that upset me muchly. without mentioning details, it was vivid and it was horrible.
so i woke up with that funny feeling, you know, when it feels like it really happened, and your physical reaction is real. now, this is good for sex dreams, but not so good for those ones when someone you love dies, or someone is really mean to you, or there's unfaithfulness, or lying, or someone is trying to kill you, etc.
THEN, this morning the real estate lady came to inspect the house we are renting. last time there was an inspection, i didn't make any effort to hide the Gigi.









gigi love
i thought i'd be upfront and see what happened. i don't like lying, you see.
this was about 6 months ago, and the conversation went something like this:
Real Estate Woman: oh, so you have a dog
[pause while we both listen to the sounds of desperate puppy whining and scratching coming from further inside the house]
Me: yep
REW: so, did we get permission from the landlord about having a dog?
[do you not HATE that "we"?]
Me: um, no. I didn't think I needed to [nose starts to grow, strangely. but she didn't notice]
REW: oh yes, it's in the lease you signed

Me: well, let's ask the landlord then, and get his permission

REW: well I'd hate to ask him and him to say no. Then you'd have to get rid of your dog.

Me: um, well, I wouldn't get rid of her. I'd move house.

[pause]

REW: i think the best thing is if I pretend I don't know there's a dog here.

[cut to now, 6 months later. the last REW has left the job to have a baby. There's a new scary and tough-talking REW who I "met" on the phone to set up the appointment for 10am today.]

Now, I decide I won't be stupid again. I've heard about people who hide their dogs etc, so I duly organise for Gigi to go and play with her friend in the next suburb. I remove all evidence of a dog resident. This includes:

* piles of poo from backyard
* all the sticks she has dragged out of garden waste pile at back of garage. she likes to chew on them.
* one chewed-up, slobbered on teddy bear
* one purple dinosaur [ditto]
* one rope knot [ditto]

then i had to remove all her bedding, her food and water bowl, her eight tennis balls. and some more poo. and cover up the holes she has dug with some dried leaves and a big, moulded green plastic shell [for water play and sand play in the summer.]

then her hair. this didn't mean just vaccuuming. 9.55am saw me on hands and knees on the back ramp trying to sweep up bits of white hair that were showing up really clearly against the mission brown [gorge] paintwork. which i had just swept. and mopped.

i took down posters and duty roster PSP [my 8yo daughter] had made to welcome Gigi into the family.

i made sure nothing, nothing was in sight. hid the full 15kg bag of dried dog food in one of the cupboards.

then the new REW arrives 5 minutes late, after sitting in her car outside my place for a good 15 minutes to psyche me out.

after 60 seconds, the conversation is going like this:

NREW: so, is that your dog out the back?

[pause. we both listen to the yapping of dog next door]

Me: no, that's next door's. It's not around all the time I don't think. And there's a bigger one on the other side.

NREW: but you do have a dog don't you? [looks at me for an answer, and looks at a piece of paper she is holding in her hand.]

WHAT HAPPENED NEXT?

DID I LIE?
DID I TELL THE TRUTH?
DID I START TO CRY?
HOW SWEATY DID MY ARMPITS GET?
DID MY FACE GO RED AND DID I START TO TALK TOO MUCH TO TRY AND MOVE ON OUT OF THE "SITUATION" HOPING SHE WOULDN'T NOTICE MY DISTRESS?

impressionable minds

does anyone remember karen black?

i am having a nostalgia trip these ten minutes. i was sitting here thinking about scary movies and she came to mind.

i HATE horror movies. i can't watch them without barricading myself behind something or someone. i KNOW it's a movie, I KNOW that just out of shot there were cameras, director, set crew and the coffee runner picking his nose.
but i still have absolutely NO trouble suspending my disbelief. in fact, the belief is all there. [unlike theatre, which i don't like. i like movies because i guess it is so escapist]

i am the person who could not watch the ring. i couldn't even get through the first two minutes. i had to turn it off. then i was pissed off that i had rented this thing and couldn't watch it. so i turned it on again, muted the volume, watched a bit while fastforwarding it so i knew what was coming, then would rewind a watch it first with no volume, then again with very very low volume.

i watched the whole thing three times - once fast forward and then again twice. it's a good way to desensitise yourself. it's also a good way to fuck up any kind of sequencing and flow.

the earliest movie i remember that scared the shit out of me was by all accounts a disney-type comedy with don knotts. it was called the ghost and mr chicken. he had poppy-out eyes, and big lips. from memory he was a reporter and spent the night in a haunted house [to get the scoop?] the scene i remember was seeing the portrait of lady so-and-so hanging above the staircase in this grand house. during the scary sequence when mr chicken is running out of the house after being spooked by organs etc, he runs past the portrait and she has shears sticking out of her chest, and there is blood oozing down. freak out!!

then there was a series in fairly rapid progression when i was just on the cusp of womanhood so about 10/11/12] -

jaws - it was so full on. i read the book too and that was pretty scary

sybil - my MOTHER took me to see this. i don't know why. she was studying psychology at uni then and perhaps thought it would be good bonding? maybe she had a professional interest. scenes that are burned into my psyche:

sybil's mother molesting her with a crochet hook
sybil wetting her pants while tied up to something and seeing the puddle forming on the ground
sybil jumping around her shrink's office, flitting from one personality to the next

mum has since apologised. actually i think she says that i asked to be taken, and that she had no idea what it was about

next one was tommy. i saw this with my cousin, and it was so freaky weird. my young brain could not process it. images that are seared into my memory:

tommy [roger daltrey] being put in a sarcophagus with needles by tina turner
someone's uncle singing a song about paedophilia called something like "fiddling about"

probably the worst of the lot was trilogy of terror. it was on tv and completely freaked my brother and me out. i don't know how old i was, but i was too young. or maybe not. the worst scene for my delicate brain was when this tribal doll came to life and started chasing karen black around her apartment, trying to kill her with this tiny knife. it would be thrusting the knife under doors, etc, until she tried to drown it [didn't work] and then i think burned it and the smoke possessed her and she became evil:

from this:












to this:














actually she used to look pretty evil even before she would get possessed.

i know i haven't mentioned the exorcist. yes it was scary and i even did a book review on it in year 9. but there are lots of other scary movies that have freaked me out, but these are the top handful that i will never ever forget. and never ever let my daughter watch until she is 25.

has anyone come across one of these?

this came up when i was looking for pages on google

http://www.plebsquad.com/kwala/Past/2004/January.html

i have dragged my feet on this, something about the imposed list that made me coy but here it is:

ten turn ons

[some are general and some are sexual. you can decide which]

someone who can make me laugh, and I mean so that I almost wet myself.
generosity [and yes, that can include spending money on me]
intelligence
honesty and directness [is that one,or two?]
being tall and big [that’s two, sorry]
meat on the bones
a big, big warm smile
large hands
gentle mouth
a good listener
plus locket [special extra entry. a promise is a promise*]


ten turn offs

bad spelling
bad breath
racism
intolerance
mean [both nasty and tight]
thoughtlessness
childishness in an adult, [it’s ok in kids]
impatience
anger
someone who doesn’t understand I need to be able to breathe

* promise

now what do i do? i have to tag someone?

[looks around school yard, sees flash of yellow and red cape which twirls behind that tree over there. runs over, manages to catch capeman and gently and laughingly tap him on the shoulder

turns and brushes hair out of eyes. sees black and white stripes moving behind shelter shed. runs over and trips on asphalt. gets to feet bravely and looks at skinned knee. doesn't want anyone to see her cry, so she runs again, circles the shed from the other direction, so that clokey doesn't see her coming. thumps him on the back, laughing and shouting "you're it!"]

and i hasten to add

the ball was not the young liberal ball which also took place on the yarra i read in the paper today.

egads. that was not where i was people.

apparently that was on saturday night

[shudders to think people may think melbournegirl is a liberal. but doesn't mind being thought of as young.]

lists will come tomorrow, sorry for delay.

a word about MY night out on friday

on friday night i went to a ball.

i had a mad morning, which included getting a wax job, the second all-off i have ever had. it wasn't as bad as the first, which was good.

then the hairdresser for some posh hair. jeff worked it good, and i exited looking very la-di-da, jumped into a taxi and went into the city.

met my man and we checked in here

he had to go back around the corner to work for a meeting.

"i'll be fine" i said, "i'll have a bath" [to wash off the little wax blobs clinging to my most
precious bits]

"and i'll see if i can get some food" i also said [hadn't eaten breakfast or lunch. it was coming up to 3pm by this stage and any hopes of a mid-pm quickie had evaporated as it would just be me for a couple more hours]

he left and i had that delicious, excited feeling you have alone in a hotel room. especially a nice one. perhaps it's not so delish when it's a seedy motel, with worn carpet, mis-matched furniture and a bullet hole in the window [like this place]

so i went downstairs feeling very grand with my coiffed hair, but looking otherwise ordinary in my normal, non-ball clothes. the concierge told me where the closest cafe was for a sandwich and coffee, and the closest bottle shop for some champagne.

back in the room i took off my jeans, and lounged on the enormous bed, ate my roast beef sandwich, drank my coffee and turned on the television.

flicked around the tv. read the hotel compendium. got out the playstation console, tried to get it working but couldn't.

then i noticed the bottom of the tv where there was promo stuff for the "adult movies"

saw that there were free previews.

pressed the buttons, and then, the room was filled with sex noises. the volume was way up on the tv. i muted it quickly, then watched all the previews while my bath ran.

then there was a knock at the door.

before you think this is going to descend into some sort of penthouse forum story, with bellboys [hardihar] and french maids [rolf rolf rolf] this is what happened:

- in a split second, a male voice said minibar
- i was frozen on the bed, and while i sat there thinking to put my jeans on really quickly, i heard the swipe card being used
- i yelled out "don't come in!"
- then a [male] voice said "sorry, we'll come back later"

minibar? i don't open my hotel door for anything less than a maxi-bar

---------------------------

after i calmed down, i had my bath, awaited my honey.

* * * * *

we got dressed and went to the ball. it was on the river at new quay? it was fun. we have been going out for 18 months but on friday night i realised i could party with him too. it was like the last little bit of the puzzle falling into place. everything else is perfect, and now i know we can sing to each other really really loudly songs like love shack and the best thing about being a woman. i know now, too, that he will tolerate me running to a dance floor with a bunch of other chicks and be one of three to start a synchronised dance of nutbush. [it was like being in a film clip, it was ace]

these are essential things if you want to be my man.

then we walked back to hotel, along the river, and if you squinted it looked like paris. it was a mild night, i wore my great-grandmother's fur stole, which matched my '50s style audrey do.

the next morning i wanted to go to the house of cashmere. well, $400+ for a scarf. i went and found a $30 "pashmere" equivalent in a lovely grey in the royal arcade.

one very happy girl.

gettin' the lingo down

can anyone please tell me what 'meme' means and give some examples of usage??

usually i can work stuff out from the context but this has me schtumped...

thanks muchly

tag lists to follow

xxx