Rocktober Day One: Soul to Squeeze

Was there ever any question that I would start with a Red Hot Chili Peppers' song? Surely not.

I can't say this is my favourite of their songs but it's a song that I love so much I have included it on my Funeral Playlist.

As with most Chili Pepper songs the lyrics are open to interpretation but to me this song is about finding your personal peace of mind, your good place; coming to terms with yourself. That's a lifelong project for me and I guess for most people. Just when you find what you think is that place things happen in your life that make you question yourself, in tiny and huge ways.

This is where this song takes me and it ends on a positive, or at least hopeful, note - which is how I tend to view life.

Soul to Squeeze (click here to go to video clip on YouTube)

I've got a bad disease
But from my brain is where I bleed
Insanity it seems
Has got me by my soul to squeeze

Well all the love from thee
With all the dying trees I scream
The angels in my dreams (yeah)
Have turned to demons of greed that's mean

Chorus

Where I go I just don't know
I got to got to gotta take it slow
When I find my piece of mind
I'm gonna give you some of my good time

Today love smiled on me.
It took away my face say please
All that you had to free
You gotta let it be oh yeah

Chorus

Oh, so polite indeed
Well I got everything I need
Oh make my days a breeze
And take away my self destruction

It's bitter baby
And it's very sweet
I'm on a rollercoaster
but I'm on my feet
Take me to the river
Let me on your shore
I'll be coming back baby
I'll be coming back for more

Doo doo doo doo dingle zing a dong bone
Ba-di ba-da ba-zumba crunga cong gone bad

I could not forget
But I will not endeavor
Simple pleasures aren't as special
But I wont regret it never

Chorus

Where I go I just don't know
I might end up somewhere in Mexico
When I find my piece of mind
I'm gonna keep you for the end of time

Rocktober

In an effort to be a better blogger (and inspired by my friend Kath, who regularly comes up with a full month of daily blogging under such memorable titles as Snappy September) I have decided to borrow the corniest of all corny terms and make October Rocktober. Over the next 31 days, ladies and gentlemen, I will bore you silly with my favourite songs, including lyrics, YouTube links and, but of course, my comments on why these songs are important to me.

These are in no particular order and will appear in the order they pop into the great empty void I like to call my mind.

You have been warned.

My blood is running cold

No, I haven't fulfilled my long held ambition and become a vampire.



Not surprisingly what's making my blood run cold is this new carbon price committee being set up by JGill (I really enjoyed typing KRudd much, much more... thanks for nothing Julia).



I knew it was too good to be true that this monumental waste of money would have actually been dead and buried. I suspected it was simply hidden from view during the election run up so that the pollies could just stick to pathetic personal insults instead of discussing any actual policies).



Now that we have Dumb, Dumber and Too Stupid for Words (and the other guy) holding the balance of power it's all systems go and we're screwed.



Yesterday I heard Bob Brown explaining why this committee needed to have secret discussions - because us civilians are simply too stupid to understand all this complicated scientific talk and we need those super smart polies making the hard decisions for us - (it's hard to explain how my frozen blood can be boiling at the same time). At that moment I added an extra segment to my fantasy involving a night of passion with Eric the gorgeous Viking vampire from True Blood. Now there's a bit at the end where instead of lighting a post coital cigarette Eric drags a squirming Herr Brown into the room and rips his throat out.



I want to do Bad Things alright.

What a difference (half) a day makes

Last night

































This morning





























I suspect it's just that it's the last week of school and the kids are at the end of their emotional tethers but we've had major meltdowns after school a few days this week.


Marianna has been very Jekyll and Hyde all week. After a horrible carry on last night she left us the message at the top.


Even though this morning started at 6:14 with her standing by my (her) bedside crying (screaming) about not wanting to go to school she then settled and went on to leave the message at the bottom.


It's these nicer moments I cling onto, trying to convince myself that despite the Spawn of Satan moments she really does have an angelic side lurking deep inside.

I love the city - part two

One of the things we did on Saturday was have lunch at the Lawenbrau in The Rocks. It's one of those places that's a bit of a Sydney institution but I've never been. So with the aim of using up some of those discount vouchers from my Entertainment Book we risked having our eye taken out by a stray boob sneaking out of those low cut wench's outfits the girls wear and settled in for a late lunch.

While I wouldn't say all is forgiven regarding who started the war it was a really good meal and a fun place to hang out. For a start I ordered the Pork Knuckle, having never tried one before, and it was wonderful. Gorgeous thin crunchy crackling covering moist roast porky meat... mmmm... porky meat (something about saying "porky meat" makes me come over all Homer Simpson). I shared a generous bit with most of the others and still had plenty for myself. The warm saurkraut wasn't so good but the mash and gravy were de-licious!

The beer of course came in sizes Large or Huge and here is a pic of me holding a Large size (half a litre) while Big Jay went off to the loo. At this point we had finished our meal and were inside watching the rather good band (you haven't lived until you've seen a German band do Johnny Cash's Ring of Fire - hopefully not in reference to the after effects of the food).

Don't ask which is Laverne and which is Shirley.

I also had a Clayton star sighting when I thought I saw Philip Seymour Hoffman at The Rocks Markets. I ran around like an idiot telling Big Jay and everyone else who would stand still long enough that I had seen him. [PSH is someone I adore. From the moment I first set eyes on him The Big Lebowski he has gone from strength to strength. He is directing a Sydney Theatre production of True West - to which we have tickets thanks to my sister and mum - so I thought he must be here for rehearsals.] Anyway, when we got home I was writing a post about it when I Googled his name only to discover he was in Brooklyn the night before at a film premiere. It was feasible that he had flown straight over to Sydney afterwards but in the photo his hair and beard were cut short and the man I saw had a scragly beard and longish hair. So obviously it was a false star sighting. How very disappointing.

Even more disappointing was seeing Neil "no-one understands what I'm trying to do" Perry inside his Rockpool Restaurant as I walked past it later that afternoon. He was obviously having a powwow with his underlings (hopefully they understand what he's trying to do) when I walked past. The most disappointing aspect was that I didn't have a brick on me to lob at his ponytailed melon head.

I'm a nasty cow, aren't I, but you already knew that.

I love the city

The Dude and I (and the giant spider in the background).












































The giant egg in the giant bird's nest (love it!)







































The Hipstomatic doing cool things to this pic of Big Jay, Missy Moo and the gorgeousness which is Sydney Harbour (that's Luna Park in the background) .






































Can you take a bad photo of the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge? Every angle is magic.




So Big Jay's stepmum and her new partner came over from Perth and we took them for a Big Sydney Day Out. One of my favourite things to do. (If you're coming to Sydney and want a gushing tour guide you know who to call.)


It was a stunning Spring day. Sunny, 20 degrees, light breeze. A perfect day for enjoying the beauty of Sydney Harbour and the hard walking that involves. Loved every minute.



So tonight I am tired and my feet ache but I am full of love for my city. I know I am a super dag but I just can't help loving Sydney with all of my black twisted heart. Not only is it stunningly beautiful but it is full of little surprises and wonderful treats. I am so very lucky to call Sydney home.

All over

It's all over for my Swannies for another year.

Saturday night's game took another 10 years off my life (I'm about 347 now). It was definitely a case of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory (they were 30 points up at half time for f*@k's sake!!! ). But as I've mentioned previously they got a bad case of third-quarter-itis and it was all down hill from there.

Dare I suggest it was Karma for Roosy selecting Bradshaw over my main man Jesse White? I wouldn't be so crass!

There's always next year...

This must have been how Shane Warne got started

Let me prelude this story by saying I was at home on Saturday night, watching the Swans vs Western Bulldogs game (may the fleas from a thousand camels infest their armpits) and texting comments to Big Jay (who was at a buck's party and away from a tv) and to my boss Bob (who was watching the game at home alone, his wife being away). Will was watching with me and sent a text to Big Jay to say "I love you dad hope you have fun".

So Sunday morning, I'm in the shower and Will calls out that Bob is calling my mobile. When I hop out I get my phone to call him back and notice that the Messaging screen is open. Will has recently taken to texting from my phone and leaving funny, sweet messages in my Notes ("Hi kathy love you from Will").

So here are the last four messages on my screen (you have to remember these SMS are coming from my phone and my name is appearing on Bob's phone):

From my phone: Are. You at home bob

From Bob: Yes

From my phone: I love you bob

From my phone: What are you doing bob

[I'm pretty sure the next question would have been: What are you wearing bob.]

You can just imagine what Bob is thinking!!!!

I've worked with him for almost 20 years, we've been members of the Sydney Swans with Bob and his wife for many years, I took his sons (now grown men) to see the basketball in 1992 when they were just tiny boys, his wife Tricia and I are good friends. You get the picture.

So he gets up on a bleary Sunday morning and get's text messages from me saying "I love you". I would have been a tiny bit worried if I was him.

Obviously I rang him straight away and explained the situation, but there must have been a minute or two there when he was thinking "what the....?".

All quiet on the blogging front

After last week's confession I felt a little drained and shellshocked. Your positive comments made me feel a hell of a lot better, so thank you very much cyber (and non-cyber) friends. A little "we love you, even though you're a bald freak" goes a long way... (hey, I wonder if that's why I like Devon Rex cats so much....).

I'm really feeling much better. I think that it's a combination of simply getting used to both the idea of my new hair and actually seeing myself in the mirror every day plus a lessening of my initial anxiety (probably because I've started back on the oestrogen patches, menopause having increased my base rate anxiety by about 1,000,000,000%) . At first I was "who the hell is that?" and now I'm getting comfortable with my new image. Also the world hasn't come to a grinding halt, so all is good.

Apart from the hair stuff, life goes on. The kidlets have been at average driving-me-crazy levels and have had many moments of this-parenting-caper-is-pretty-good. Maybe I'm just choosing to downplay the there's-going-to-be-a-murder-suicide-situation-here moments (like Marianna having a meltdown at dinnertime most evenings this week, causing whatever it is we choose to call a routine to go totally out the window).

Will is maturing into an almost teenager and it is both wonderful and frightening. Yesterday walking through the shopping centre (to OPSM to order his new glasses - having recently had a much overdue opthamologist appointment we know he needs a much stronger pair of glasses), Will skulked behind Marianna and I, walking with his hood up and his arms crossed. Oh vei, I thought, the vision of things to come.

In other Will news, it will be 10 years tomorrow (11 September 2000) since we landed back in Sydney with baby Will in our arms. Our trip to Guatemala to bring home little Will was the start of our parenting journey and an amazing time in our lives. Getting off the plane to a terminal full of family and friends (and assorted Olympic competitors) was a very memorable moment. So tonight we'll be having a little family celebration dinner. Happy Family Day to us all!

On the Swans front (and a very important front it is!) things are going well. For those that know and/or care the Swans won (just!!!) their elimination final and will now play Western Bulldogs tomorrow night. Even though the Dogs are in a pitiful state with many good players injured I can't assume my Swannies can walk all over them. The Swans are quite good at snatching defeat from the jaws of victory (and sometimes visa versa). As such it will be a tense game I'm sure (but after last week's nail biter I can cope). I'm disappointed that my current favourite Jesse White (ggggrrrrrr!) (I think it's the tatts, the height and the Clarence the Cross-eyed Lion look) has been sidelined in favour of Daniel Bradshaw (this year's great white hope, who has sat out most of the season with injury). Not happy Roos! Let's hope it's not a mistake and... GO THE SWANNIES!

I've been loving the second series of Come Dine With Me Australia. It's Big Jay's and mine guilty pleasure. It has re-doubled my need for a Thermomix. Having seen it in action during one of the new episodes I crave it so much. But at $2,000 it's a kitchen appliance which I will just have to do without until that Lotto win finally comes through.

Speaking of cooking shows, you just know I'll be watching Junior Masterchef this Sunday night. I don't want to but I will. The kids are looking forward to it so I guess we'll make it our Sunday night family show to watch. It's just that there is something creepy about a 12 year old whipping together a beurre blanc sauce, don't you think.

After watching the first episode of the third series of True Blood I have IQd the rest of the episodes and just can't seem to get back to watching them (Big Jay not being a fan it's hard to find time to watch it on my own). It looks like a great season and getting sexier by the minute. Damn it, I love those blood suckers! Even the awful Eric is looking very hot this season.

As you were.

Hair, there and everywhere

I have genetic female hair loss.

There, I have named the elephant which has lived in the room with me for many years. The elephant all my friends have known about but which I haven't talked about with anyone but my closest family members.

It's a tough elephant to ignore but even tougher to acknowledge. It has been a very difficult decision to "come out" and discuss it in this way.

My first inkling that my hair was thinner than the norm was probably in my mid-teens when the hairdresser suggested keeping my cropped hair a little longer and not going for the flat top I wanted because my hair was too thin to carry it off. By my early 20s I knew it was more than just regular "thin" hair. I would say by the time I was 30 I knew I was a freak.

As a woman hair loss is a heavy burden to carry. I think it's very different to male hair loss which is undoubtedly difficult for any man but is certainly much more socially understood and accepted. A woman's hair is part of her image, her style, her personality, her ego. Somewhere deep inside, every woman, even a cynical old bitch like me, imagines herself the beautiful princess, beautiful face and long flowing hair, irrisitable to her Prince Charming.

Over the years I have tried different things to mask this problem, all with little success I fear. I have been to see the specialists, I have Googled all the important words in the hope of finding the magical cure (they can fly men to moon after all...).

About three months ago I finally bit the bullet and ordered what the gorgeous Andrew from Transitions Hair calls a hair "enhancement". Bluntly speaking this is a glorified toupe (you don't know how it hurts me to write those words), a wig of sorts.

Last Friday it finally arrived and I had my "fitting" which meant having my hair cut and the new hair cut into a style which is managable and suits me. I am generally happy with the result and I think I look fine, though it is physically something that will take some time to get used to wearing.

Since then I have been a bit of an anxious wreck. I feel that everyone is looking at me and wondering why I am wearing a wig (does she have cancer? what is wrong with that woman?). I am not normally an anxious person but since menopause my anxiety levels are much, much higher and this issue is very close to the bone. As such I am hypersensitive right now and a little paranoid, never far from tears.

There is part of me which wants to explain the truth to everyone I come across, there is a part of me which thinks I am overreacting, there is part of me which is angry and embaressed and generally pissed off, another part hates that this is so painful for me (after all, I have all my limbs intact, as Mr Fawlty would say), a tiny part wants to lock myself away indoors and never come out. But the main part of me just soldiers on, carrying on with my life, smiling into the bemused, questioning faces I have come across at work and at school every day this week.

The reason I finally decided to expose myself here was that this is really the bottom line of what blogging is meant to be about. It's not just about my obsession with Robbie Williams and reality tv, it's not just about my rambling political ideas or why my kids are driving me nuts this week. It's also about the tough stuff. My inspiration has been my friend Kath in Melbourne who has been brutally honest about her own issues and I applaud her for that. It is bloody hard to reveal your deepest self to a public audience. But as I gain comfort, strength and knowledge from reading about other people's trials and tribulations I hope that others may do so from reading about my own.

If nothing else this new fangled young people's internet allows us to find our communities and to make connections we couldn't have imagined 20 years ago. Maybe writing about this is just further humiliation but hopefully by being brave I can say "it's OK, you're not alone". Because this problem, so huge to me and yet so insignificant in the big scheme of things, often makes me feel very alone and it's a feeling I fear and loathe.

My daughter, captain of the Sydney Swans

Saturday night was the last home game for the season* for my Swannies. It was also the last home game for two of our greats. Paul Roos only played 87 games for the Swans, between 1995 and 1998 (after playing 269 games with Fitzroy) but he felt like family very quickly. Fans will remember the reverential "Roooos" call out whenever he kicked the ball. When he returned to the coaching position in 2003 it simply felt like he was coming home; a strong, calm presence after the stressed out Rodney Eade years. He took us to two grand finals and that can never be forgotten. I'm sure he will always be part of the Swans family.

As will Brett Kirk, the retiring co-captain. Captain Kirk (as he is fondly called) was the least likely AFL hero. He's a Buddhist (sometimes introducing the Dalai Lama to the audience during his Sydney visits) for a start, and ".. a guy who can't run very quickly, can't jump, he's not that strong - jeez he's a good footy player though" (according to another Swans great, Michael O'Loughlin). Kirk was an amazing combination of gentleness, guts and never-say-die attitude. His love of the Bloods was obvious for all to see.

It was a wondrful win on Saturday night (and having our old mate Barry Hall, playing very ineffectively for the competition) made it even more of a strange and bitter sweet moment.

*This may have been our last home game of the year but there's a good chance we'll play a home final as we head towards the pointy end of the season. Just when I thought the Swans had no chance (with a very hot and cold season) it's looking like we'll finish the official season in 5th position, which is mindblowing considering how they were playing only three weeks ago.

The Australian people have spoken...

... and they have ordered both the shit sandwich and the vomit pie, with a large side serve of spanner in the works.

Woo hoo! Let the circus roll on.

To be frank my children predicted this result. As we were walking to our local voting centre yesterday Will said he wanted to vote for Tony Abbott because "he is a man, like me" and Marianna said she wanted to vote for Julia Gillard because "she has straight hair". I couldn't argue with either of those persuasive arguements.

2011: The Year of the Frequent Flyer Points

I've just booked our flights to NEW YORK CITY for May/June 2011. My dear sister is getting married, which is wonderful and amazing news. But more importantly I am going to NEW YORK CITY, THE BIG APPLE, THE CITY THAN NEVER SLEEPS.

Just a little excited about it. I just hope it doesn't disappoint like LA.

I'm on a no-shopping diet between now and then because I plan to hit the shops hard in NY. It's going to be a tough nine months.

And because spending endless hours on painfully uncomfortable long haul flights is just too much fun we are starting to plan what we've been calling THE BIG TRIP.

December 2011/January 2012 we'll see us visiting Colombia, Guatemala and then back to Orlando, Florida. We want to take the kids back for a good visit to their countries of birth which will be very special. Then we want to finish the holiday with a week or so in Orlando visiting DisneyWorld and most importantly Harry Potter World.

I don't know what I'm most excited about really (apart from the actual wedding part, though secretly I think I'm just a little more excited about Harry Potter World, sorry JB). It's going to be a huge travel year and I'm starting to feel the familiar happy/scared anxiety building.

Away We Go

I watched Away We Go this morning (planned to watch it last night but fell asleep watching Alvin and The Chipmunks: The Squeakquel - is there anything more annoying than those chipmunk voices? oh the pain!).

Loved it! Just the sort of little movie I enjoy thoroughly. Not a huge amount to say. Just a gentle look at modern life. Great characters, great soundtrack, strong dialogue, beautiful scenery.

Special mention for Maya Rudolph who was superb and for the entire Montreal sequence which felt very right and brought a tear (or 20) to my eye.

Very surprised that this was a Sam Mendes effort. I still haven't forgiven him for American Beauty (I know I'm the only person on Plant Earth who hated this film).

Just call me Domestic Goddess

Spent half the day baking for the school's Election Day Cake Stall yesterday.

That's Cranberry and White Chocolate Biscuits (these are super delicious and you make a huge amount from the recipe) on the left and Nigella's Totally Chocolate Chocolate Chip Cookies (very good but just too chocolatey for me) on the right.

All I can say is I went through a lot of butter and my KitchenAid got a thorough workout. I just love a few hours at home, in the kitchen, in peace. Heaven.

So hopefully there will be a few voters leaving my children's school today feeling happy and satisfied (which are two feelings you won't get from actually voting).

Shit or vomit?

Would madam like a shit sandwich or a vomit pie for lunch on Saturday 21 August?

That's basically our political choices when we face the federal election next week.

I have felt like we've literally been drowning in a sea of piss weak political bollocks these last few weeks and there is no respite in the foreseeable future.

Today we received a brochure from The Climate Sceptics Party in our letterbox at the office and I jumped around like a lunatic shouting "yippee". A tiny voice of reason amongst the white noise of political nonsense. I know they don't have a hope in hell but at least there are people out there trying and I salute them.

The alternative is Mr and Ms Bland with their equally bland and pathetic so-called policies. Shuffling our money from here to there, making policy statements which amount to a whole load of bullshit because there is a more than equal chance they will never see the light of day anyway. A hospital for you, a rail network for you, some token cash for you disability groups... now run along and vote for us but at the end of the day we'll move that money sideways after the election and forget all about you until the next one.

One of the many "policies" which drive me wild is this "stop the boats" crap. I see red whenever that pops onto the teev. Why is all the focus on these poor boat people? Why doesn't anyone talk about the real illegal immigration problems with people coming from the UK and NZ and Europe and Asia by plane and simply outstaying their holiday or student visas? Do you ever hear anyone mention that aspect of illegal immigration? No, it's all "boat people" this and "stop the boats" that. As if that's really the biggest problem this country has anyway! Sheesh! What a smokescreen and a pile of populist rubbish.

As always I start to rant and rave and froth at the mouth in a most unbecoming manner when I start thinking about politics. So I better just stop now and have a cup of tea and a lay down in a quiet room.

In the presence of greatness

These past two weeks have seen me share the air space with two men I admire greatly. Two men whose command of the English language leaves me gobsmacked and inspired. You could say that they are the extreme ends of the language spectrum but each uses words in ways which amaze and amuse me. I am talking about Stephen Fry and Kevin Smith.

Two weeks ago Stephen Fry spoke at the Sydney Opera House Concert Hall and last night Kevin Smith did the very same thing. So similar and yet so very different.

To me Stephen Fry is the last bastion of the old English English. As a child of the Enid Blyton generation I grew up reading not just Ms Blyton but Oscar Wilde, the Bronte Sisters, Jane Austen and a myriad of other English writers. The beautifully rolled words and turns of phrase were music to my literal ears. The way Stephen Fry speaks takes me back to that time and those memories.

But his talent is much more than that. Words are his plaything, his tools of trade; he has an ability to fashion a sentence which makes me gasp with delight. To some he may sound like a toffee nosed old Pom but to me he is an intellectual God.


























Kevin Smith (hate to say it Kev but you could loose a few kgs) at the Opera House on Monday night.


I wouldn't call Kevin Smith an intellectual God, not in the same way. His craft is modern language, colloquial language and he is a master. His dialogue makes me want to write and makes me hang onto my dream of writing a script (but when I read his scripts I know it's much harder than it looks to write such "real" shit).

On Monday night he was there for his fans and his was incredibly generous with his time. Unlike Stephen Fry who worked on a very strict and organised schedule (45 minutes of pre-prepared banter followed by 45 minutes of pre-Tweeted questions asked by Jennifer Byrne), Kevin Smith gave himself to us totally. First he talked and then he answered questions from the audience, and there was a fucking shitload of questions. The KS geeks out did themselves. We left at the 3 hours 35 minutes mark and they were still going strong.

To me Kevin Smith is legend and here is a small reminder of the sort of thing I love about him. The Silent Bob Speaks scene from Chasing Amy is perfection to me; the timing, the surprise factor, the understanding of relationships disguised as male bullshit banter, it's just beautiful.


>>

Holden looks out the window. Jay continues to roll his joint. There's silence. Then...

BOB
You're chasing Amy.

Holden's head snaps forward. He stares, wide-eyed at Silent Bob.

HOLDEN
What..what did you say?

BOB
You're chasing Amy.

Holden stares, shocked. He looks to Jay, who's still rolling his joint.

JAY
What do you look so shocked for? He does this all the time. Fat bastard thinks just because he never says anything, that it'll have some huge impact when he does open his fucking mouth.

BOB
Why don't you shut up? Jesus! Always yap, yap, yapping all the time. Give me a fucking headache.

(to Holden)
I went through something like what you're going through. Years ago. Same kind of thing with a girl named Amy.

JAY
When?

BOB
A couple of years ago.

JAY
What'd she 'Live in Canada' or something? Why don't I remember this?

BOB
What you don't know about me I can just about squeeze into the Grand fucking Canyon. Did you know I always wanted to be a dancer in Vegas?

Jay and Holden look at him. Silent Bob busts a move with his hands.

BOB
Hunhh? Bet you didn't know that?

JAY
Just cell your fucking story so we can get out of here and smoke this.

BOB
(to Holden)
So there's me an Amy, and we're all inseparable, right? Just big time in love. And then about four months in, I ask about the ex-boyfriend. Dumb move, I know, but you know how it is -
you don't really want to know, but you just have to... stupid guy bullshit. Anyway she starts telling me all about him - how they dated for years, lived together, her mother likes me better,
blah, blah, blah - and I'm okay. But then she tells me that a couple times, he brought other people to bed with them - menage a tois, I believe it's called. Now this just blows my mind.
I mean, I'm not used to that sort of thing, right? I was raised Catholic.

JAY
Saint Shithead.

Silent Bob backhands him. Jay raises his fist as if to strike.

BOB
Do something.

(to Holden)
So I get weirded out, and just start blasting her, right? This is the only way I can deal with it - by calling her a slut, and telling her that she was used - I mean, I'm out for blood I want to hurt her - because I don't know how to deal with what I'm feeling. And I'm like "What the fuck is wrong with you?" and she's telling me that it was that time, in that place, and she didn't do anything
wrong, so she's not gonna apologize. So I tell her it's over, and I walk.

JAY
Fucking a.

BOB
No, idiot. It was a mistake. I wasn't disgusted with her, I was afraid. At that moment, I felt small - like I'd lacked experience, like I'd never be on her level or never be enough for her or something. And what I didn't get was that she didn't care. She wasn't looking for that guy anymore. She was looking for me. But by the time I realized this, it was too late, you know. She'd moved on, and all I had to show for it was some foolish pride, which then gave way to regret. She was the girl, I know that now. But I pushed her away...

Everyone's silent Silent Bob lights a cigarette.

BOB
So I've spent every day since then chasing Amy...
(takes a drag from his smoke)
So to speak.

They sit there for a beat. Jay pockets the rest of his dime-bag.

JAY
Enough of this fucking melodrama. My advice - forget her, dude. There's one woman in the world. One woman, with many faces.

(to Silent Bob)
Get up, bitch

<<<

[Not so good] Food and Wine Show

Saturday afternoon - 3 to 5 pm - there's 2 hours of my life I won't get back.


Why? Because I spent doing my best bovine impersonation, along with about half of Sydney's population, at the [NOT] Good Food and Wine Show.

This is my fourth visit and last. It started off as a way to showcase interesting, often small, food companies and their offerings. A chance to taste some things you might not see at the supermarket. An opportunity to see some chefs in full flight (Big Jay and I saw Gordon Ramsay a couple of years ago, which was entertaining if odd, with the audience screaming like he was a rock star... and if anyone recognises rock-star-style screaming it would be me).

Anyway, this year I went with my mum and sister and it was awful from the very first minute when we were squeezed in there like toothpaste going back into it's tube. There were so many people we barely got close to any of the stalls and only tasted a handful of items. Most of the time we were shuffling along with the throng, having our feet stepped on and my nanna trolley (which is useful for bringing home the sample and "Show Special" bags) tripped over.

The moment I knew this show had lost the plot was when we spotted the Lean Cuisine stand. I don't think there's any real need to spell out why I think a Good Food and Wine Show is no place for Lean Cuisine.

What I don't understand is why they can't break it up into "sessions" and only allow in a limited number of people for each session. It just seems logical to me. That way it would be an enjoyable experience rather than one I couldn't wait to get out of.

My daughter, Paris Hilton

My son, the Scary Fairy

The death penalty

This story in todays news has had me feeling sick all day. I remember very clearly when this horrible thing happened and today's sentencing has brought up all those feelings and worse.

I don't believe in the death penalty. I think as a society we should be better than that.

But I strongly want to harm the man involved in this crime. I would happily fire the bullet, press the button or inject the lethal dose. Whatever his background, and undoubtedly it is awful, he is a wretched human and would be best not on this earth.

Generally I can see the other side of most crimes, at least imagine the motive, the accident, the whatever set of circumstances led to something horrible happening. I can feel a tiny bit of sympathy towards the criminal, even to a tiny degree.

But this story is so awful, so disgusting, that I feel nothing but horror and anger and vengence. I imagine my own daughter so terrified that she jumps out of a third floor balcony, naked, to escape the horror which has befallen her. The feeling which arises is pure loathing towards this creature which would do something so degrading, so disgusting to another human.

I feel so much for her family and the families of all those involved. I want to hug them but I know that would do nothing to ease the emotional agony they must suffer for the rest of their days. I feel for the police, the hospital workers, the social workers, the court workers, everyone who has come into contact with this case on a professional level because they would know details that would make this story not just horrible but an absolute nightmare.

I don't often feel this level of anything about crime; there is so much on the news I rarely give it a second glance, but this is one of those stories which has got under my skin, like the Bilal Skaf gang rapes, makes me angry and sad and fearful and wanting to wrap my children up in their quilts and lock the door and stay away from the world.

But of course that won't happen.

What I hope does happen is that this Brendan Dennison monster gets what he deserves in jail. I know this makes me less of a person, a good person, that I hope that I am, but I can't help it. I want him to suffer, I want some other evil creature in jail to do to him what society is not able to do.

More than anything I hope that the innocent people involved in this are able to find some sort of peace.

Eating your own vomit

It's well documented how I feel about Robbie Williams. He is my fantasy sex on legs.

But today's announcement that he is getting back together with the boy band that spawned his career is akin to eating your own vomit.

For a start he has built a career on shitting on the band, it's members and his entire time with them. Having read his biography Feel I don't recall a single positive word about his experience with Take That.

Furthermore Take That were a boy band and I am fairly certain that none of them can these days be referred to as boys. And there is nothing more pathetic than grown men doing what must be done when they are recreating a boy band: i,e, doing naff dance moves while singing even naffer songs aimed at 12 year old girls.

It's not like he needs the money and I'm sure he didn't just wake up one day and realise he actually loved Gary Barlow instead of despise him.

So what's up? The whole things smells very bad to me and I am going to try very hard to ignore it. Hopefully it will just go away. Because if I see Robbie doing some lame choreographed dance routine alongside his old mate Gary there will be vomit, mark my words.

Why the only thing we'll leave our children is the mortgage

How is one supposed to save, or even live within one's means, when every email brings a temptation?

At the end of the month we're going to see Stephen Fry.

Two weeks after that KEVIN SMITH. Yes, I have to say it in capitals because it's fucking KEVIN SMITH. KEVIN SMITH. KEVIN SMITH.

Talking. Live. In front of me. In the same room. I'm not dealing with it very well.

Then we have tickets for A Day on the Green in December featuring Blondie and The Pretenders.

I think there are other things in between but I'm too lazy to go have a look in the ticket drawer.

There is more to come. The rumours of Robbie Williams, Kiss, Pink touring are just the start.

Make it stop. Or hide my credit card.

Palmer Street

[Warning: This is long and tedious and of little entertainment value. Just a meander down memory lane. Not of any interest to the casual observer. You have been warned.]

Sometime in early 1984 I moved into a terrace house on Palmer Street in Darlinghurst with my friend Yolanda and a bunch of skinheads. I wasn't quite 16 (or maybe just), I was a skinhead girl and I was having the time of my life.

I was quite a tragic for subcultures in those days. I had started off at 13 as a new wave, Rocky Horror type: black tutu, one leg red/one leg black leggings, pointy shoes and crinkly hair with a giant red bow. We hung around at the old (then brand new) Hoyts Cinema complex in George Street, the heart of Sydney. We drank cappucinos at the cafe and smoked cigarettes with an exaggerated coolness. We hung out with gay boys and older boys/men who should have known better.

From there I progressed to a baby punk, when Frank and his brother Alfred arrived at our school. They were punks and they introduced us to the scene and to two boys who were to become very important in my life and the life of my best friend A. Sid and Dean (aka Fang) were from the bad old Western suburbs and had just been released from Minda, the childrens' home, when we met them. We didn't know jack shit about "punk" but we were rebelling and this seemed like an express route to where we wanted to be.

Punk was good for girls who didn't fit in with the "pretty and popular" model. It allowed us to take ugly up to an art form. We thought we were saying "screw you" to the society and its rules and regulations but we were just signing up for another society with a different set of rules.

My uniform consisted of variations on this theme: tartan mini skirts with ripped fishnets, simple white dresses I had made myself with words of my favourite punk songs written on them in blood like scrawl, a giant jumper hand knitted on huge needles from green mohair (my green pubic hair jumper), resin penis shaped earrings.

When we decided to move across to the skinhead camp I think it was a simple style decision. We actually thought out parents would be happy at this change. Before I go any further it is important to clarify the skinhead thing. Most people think skinhead = racist thug. To a large degree that is true. But when I entered the scene it was neatly split down the middle: Oi skinheads (previously mentioned racist thugs) on one side and Ska skinheads on the other. As the name implies Ska skinheads were into Ska music (you know, The Specials, Selector, Bad Manners, The Allnighters). The Ska skins were into the look but had a much more benign attitude.

So that's where I found myself during Year 10 high school. Cropped hair with long fringe and tails, tight jeans or tartan skirts with Doctor Marten boots and Fred Perry shirts. I have to say it is still a look I love but you just don't see many skinhead girls (or punks or mods) around these days... or maybe I just hang around the wrong circles.

I started working full time at the beginning of December 1983, four days after I finished school at the end of Year 10. I can (modestly) say I was quite smart at school but I couldn't be bothered working hard to get the marks and I was anxious to get a job and start my "real" life. I was lucky to be offered a job at HCF, in their art department, after having done work experience there earlier in the year. Not only was I working and earning reasonble money but I was doing something "creative", the dream of any school leaving teen.

Life reveloved around working and partying on weekends. Friday after work we would hit the Royal George Hotel (now famous as the Slip Inn, where whatshername found her Danish prince). It was skinhead headquarters and where it all happened on Friday and Saturday nights. We would start by drinking copious amounts of KB lager (no wonder I can't even stand the smell of beer these days) and would end the evening by finishing up whatever drinks were left on tables. We had no shame; we were teenage pissheads.

What I remember most about that time was the "us" and "them". "Them" were the big boy skinheads and their girlfriends. John Duffy, king of the skinheads, is a name and face I will never forget. No-one fucked with John; from his bitten off ear to his stocky, brick shithouse build, everything about him yelled "don't screw with me, arsehole".


Then there was Big Phil, gorgeous, MG driving, in the Navy, so far out of our league he may as well have been from Mars. Big Brian, aloof, arrogant, gorgeous, we all hated him but secretly had a crush on him.


The "us" were me and my gaggle of skinhead girls. We were mostly middle class teenage girls having an absolute ball. We were getting pissed, taking drugs, seeing bands, dancing, living life. It was an amazing time. It was also the junior skinhead boys. The ones who weren't up to hanging out in the major league.


I fondly remember Little Brian, who was a sweetheart and with whom I had a one-time fondle in the dirty garden behind the Royal George. He came from Galston which was impossibly far from the heart of civilisation.

Later there was my Neil and Little Michael and Big Brett, but Palmer Street was before all that.

I got to Palmer Street via Paddington. Paddington was where Yolanda and her boyfriend lived in a tiny one bedroom flat when I moved out of home. It was very sudden. I think it came about like this: I was out on Friday night, I rang my mum to say I would stay at Yolanda's house because we were going to have a late night (and after all Yolanda was "older" at 21, and obviously mature and responsible), mum said if I didn't come home I shouldn't bother coming home. So I didn't. Well, technically I did the next morning to pick up some clothes in plastic bags, but I didn't live at home again for any considerable period of time ever again.

I moved onto a mattress on the floor in Yolanda's living room and life was so fucking good. It was the pub every evening after work, it was hanging out with my friends, it was no rules, it was sharing $2 bundles of newspaper wrapped hot chips for dinner.

Sometime during that first month or two we were taking a walk one night when we noticed a big terrace on Palmer Street with a For Rent sign. We thought it would be cool to get such a big place and fill it with our best friends. Somehow we managed to rent it (the concept seems so ridiculous today, when you virtually need a reference from the Prime Minister and a gazillion dollars to rent a studio flat). They rented a six bedroom terrace house 5 minutes walk from the city to a couple of barely employed teenage girls. Shit!

Yolanda lived there with her boyfriend (whose name escapes me, but I can picture him quite clearly). I shared a room with a girl called Natalie who was Brinley's girlfriend. At that point we lost all control and the other residents seemed to be a constantly shifting group of skinhead friends and friends of friends. You just never knew who would be at home when you got there from work every afternoon. One afternoon we arrived to find the living filled with a couple of the "regular" boys and the prostitutes from the brothel next door. In our weird "feminist" way we were not impressed.

An important part of that time was "Evil" Jeff. A skinhead with a monster reputation but a guy we loved and tried to take care of, despite, or maybe because of, his frailities. Namely heroin. The night he OD'd in the big front bedroom will always be etched in my memory. Being woken up by the commotion, stumbling into the room to find him cold and blue on the floor, standing aside as the ambulance people rushed in. They gave him an injection and he sat straight up and lit a cigarette, swearing at the people who had just given him back his life.

I remember preparing him for his regular court visits by putting foundation on his heavily tattooed face and neck; making him appear a total freak rather than just a very scary mofo. To the world he was frightening and the sort of person you would cross the street to avoid, to us he was a pussycat and we loved him. I heard much later that he got killed by a train, undoubtedly in some sort of drug induced stupor. I didn't understand what his demons were at the time, I was a baby with no life experience, but looking back I wonder what it was that had made him into who he was when I knew him. Rest in peace, dear Jeff.

We used to drink at the Lismore Hotel, which was on the corner of Pitt Street and the little lane which runs between it and George Street, right in the middle of the city. It's long gone now. The Lismore was run by a little mean Greek guy called Nick. He hated us but we were generally his only customers so he couldn't chuck us out, underage or not.

A skinhead called Spike, who originally hailed from Canberra, lived in one of the Lismore's upstairs bedrooms. He was much older than us, late twenties or even thirty (or maybe he was 22 and we just thought he was "old" in the way teenagers do). He was obviously a damaged man, to be living alone in a pub and hanging out with young teenagers. I'm sure we made fun of him but tolerated him because he was sweet and gentle and bought us drinks.

I have so many swirling memories which are hard to pin down, isolate, get into clear focus. I am quite sure that I have many of them confused in terms of the time line and who was involved. I want to document things as they float up in the murky pool which is my memory because I am scared that this precious time in my life will simply fade away like a cloud in the breeze. Those people meant so much to me and yet I am finding that their names are getting harder (or impossible) to recall.

For example, there was a beautiful young skinhead boy who hung around with us for a time. He shared Yolanda's living room floor with me for a while when he was coming into the city to do summer school at the University of Sydney in preparation for his HSC. He was big and tall and my memory of him is that of a labrador puppy, all eager but shy affection. He may have had a crush on me but I was after the bigger fish and looked upon him like a little brother (though he was probably older than me).

His time with us ended so tragically it makes me ill now to think about it. There was a party at one of the big league skinhead's flats in Bondi. We went for a while but it wasn't for us. These were the heavy weights and they were mean and drunk and even we knew that we were in dangerous territory. Our friend (why can't I remember his name? he was so special to me!) turned up at the party late, after we had left, or maybe he had stayed after we left. Either way, as these things usually happen, he had taken a beer from somewhere he shouldn't have or there was a misunderstanding about the beer he was drinking. He was a babe in the woods and the wolves attacked. We heard later he had been beaten savagely. He had ended up at St Vincents in intensive care. His family wouldn't let us in to see him (who can blame them). If he survived (and for some reason my memory tells me he did) his parents whisked him off to the safety of their suburban home and we never saw him again.

When I look back I know it was only pure, stupid luck which enabled our survival. We were such stupid, innocent, arrogant little girls playing in a very dangerous big world totally out of our league and out of our control.

But fuck I never ever ever felt so alive as I did then.

Beth I hear you calling

I learnt an interesting factoid the other day.

Beth was Kiss' first US Top 10 hit. It was actually the B-Side of Detroit Rock City (or was it Shout It Out Loud?). Either way it's not a song which yells "KISS" at you. It's a ballad, a love song, it's accoustic. It's a song I absolutely love.

Like its sister Hard Luck Woman it's a song written and sung by Peter Criss, the drummer, and for me both songs are fantastic. They both pull at my heartstrings (yes, there are some there, well buried) and make me wonder how a drugged out rocker like Peter Criss could come up with such incisive lyrics.

But really the surprise is that this little song struck more of a chord with US radio listeners in the late 1970s then the real Kiss songs, the big songs. For my money Detroit Rock City and Shout It Out Loud are what Kiss are all about; the big stadium anthems which I just love singing along to in the car.

Sorry to bother you with that weird little tidbit. Just thinking out loud (as oppossed to shouting, I guess).

Fantasy overload

Came across this little gem while Googling photos of Anthony.

This would be circa 1989 or thereabouts.

A beautiful photo and a moment which lives only in legend in my disturbed little mind (but here is photographic proof):

The gorgeous Ione Skye, filming Say Anything with John Cusack while living with Anthony.

Life (at least in my fantasy world) does not get any better than that. Fact.

Special Edition 5th Anniversary Post

Last Friday was the 5 year anniversary of this blog. Talk about making something out of nothing. This blog is almost like a third child to me. Sometimes the responsibility (or the idea of the responsibility) is a heavy psychological burden and other times I don't know how I'd get through life without it. It is a strange little creature, this cyber diary of mine.


Because I don't have anything interesting to write in honour of this significant anniversary I thought I'd take a moment to see what subject matters have taken up the majority of my thinking/writing time.


So here is the Top 10 (Top 17 actually, as some topics were statistically equal with others):


1) Life


2) Kids

2) Movies


3) Sydney Swans


4) Marianna


5) Big Brother


6) Parenthood

6) Politics


7) Music

7) Cooking


8) The Climate Change Fiasco


9) Food

9) Holidays


10) Family
10) Books

10) Anthony Kiedis











[Yo, AK! Looking so much like your old man Blackie these days, my lovely man!]


I couldn't have said it better myself. This blog has organically become what I couldn't have ever envisaged it being, or maybe exactly what I had hoped it would be. A reflection of me.

Hip hip hooray!

The Beginning of the End

When I think back to the moment when I went from being a sweet, goody-two-shoes, library monitor child to a blue haired, penis-shaped-earring wearing, running-away-from-home, moving in with a household of skinheads at 15, teenage nightmare, I think I can trace it back to a day in 1980 at the old Bondi Junction Cinema when I saw the movie Foxes. It starred Jodie Foster but for me the big star was Cherie Currie. She played the tragic, bad girl Annie and she changed my life.

For me seeing that movie and falling in girl love with Annie/Cherie Currie was the first step on the road to teenage rebellion. I hadn't thought of that movie and that moment and that time in my life for a very long time. It is funny how such an important moment (and believe me, I knew it was an important moment the minute I came out of that cinema, feeling punch drunk and knowing at a certain level that nothing would ever be the same again) became a blind spot in my memory.

What brought it back into close perspective recently was getting an email from Popcorn Taxi about the upcoming movie The Runaways. I had seen bits in the entertainment media about this movie but hadn't registered much except that it starred that blank faced Kristen Stewart (who seems to have all the personality of a damp kitchen sponge, from what I have seen of her on the teev). I almost deleted the email outright (though Popcorn Taxi have delivered tasty treats in the past, lately there hasn't been much to interest me) but seeing the name Cherie Currie triggered something. An actual lightbulb moment!

The event they were advertising was a preview screening of The Runaways with a live, via satellite, chat with Cherie Currie (actress and member of the actual Runaways). Seeing that name opened a floodgate of memories and I sat shaking at my desk, remembering so clearly coming out of that screening of Foxes 30 years ago and feeling the foundations of my life shift under my feet.

So on 7 July I'll be dragging my long suffering sister to this night of nostlagia, if that is even the right word for it. I don't know anything about the band The Runaways and I didn't know Cherie Currie was in it, so this will be something of a learning experience as well.

All I know right now is that I need to get my hands on a copy of Foxes. In equal parts I desperately want to see it again and I am terrified of seeing it again. I am so scared that actually seeing what is potentially (undoubtedly!) a very poor 80s teenage angst piece of schlock will shatter the exquisite feelings I remember from that time. Is it best to cling onto the memories or watch it again and re-examine it from a 42 year old perspective? What do you think?

Travelling North (and South)

We've just returned from a pleasant long weekend in Melbourne visiting Big Jay's brother T and his wife A and their little fellow A.

We drove down, the first time in a long time, and it was good. Luckily Big Jay likes the long distance driving (whereas I DO NOT) which leaves me ample time to read on my Kindle. (I've just finished The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro and The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley, both of which will hopefully get an entry of their own sooner rather than later.)

Gundagai was our mid-way overnight stopover in both directions. Small towns make my skin crawl. I can do one night but the idea of living somewhere like that makes me feel ill. I've probably mentioned that I have a medical condition which means I have to live within a 15 minute drive of a Myer and/or a Westfield at all times. We passed a town which had a population of 150 - that's ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY PEOPLE. Our apartment block would have more than 150 people living in it. I can't imagine a whole town that small. It scares me that such places exist and, worse still, that some people want to live in them. Why?!

Anyway, enough about my mental health problems. Our visit in Melbourne was very nice. Low key and enjoyable. I got to spend time with my sister-in-law A who is a very classy lady. She epitomises what I consider good fashion sense and style. She always looks damned fabulous. She has the sort of petite figure which looks good in just about anything and she makes the most of it by wearing very stylish gear. She knows her brands and she knows how to put an outfit together. Every time I see her I know I'm going to get a little visual treat.

Nothing notable happened but here are a few picture momentos (I love the Hipstamatic app on my iPhone).

I want Meat

Last week I bought tickets for the upcoming Blondie and The Pretenders double bill at A Day on the Green. We saw Blondie a few years ago and she (and the band) still rocked in a very big way. I'm hoping Chrissie Hynde still has it too.

This is a concert I'm really looking forward to, most of all because we can take the kids (for free!). I love introducing them to "our" music. They have it on their iPods and taking them to a concert is an extra special thrill. They are still at an age when they enjoy music for what it is, without the "theirs" and "ours" attitude.

The next day I was listening to a radio special on Meatloaf's Bat Out Of Hell, a classic by any standard I would think (though I understand that there are those who think it's schlocky rubbish - bah humbug to you, I say).

Then it hit me: how amazing would it be to see Meatloaf performing the entire album at A Day on the Green. Pumping out those huge songs under a starry sky. I hope there's a promoter working on it right now...

On a hot summer night would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?

FUCK YEAH!

Chip off the old block

We spent the weekend having a wonderful time at Camp Connection (a weekend away for adoptive families).

We had a funny moment on Saturday evening when the kids were playing Celebrity Heads. Will was one of the contestants and his celebrity to be guessed was "BATMAN". He asked a few relevant questions, like "Am I am man?" and "Am I on television?". Then, sensing he was getting an idea about who he was, he asked "Am I Dr Phil?".

Aaahhhh, makes a mother proud.

I love you I Love You Too

Yesterday Big Jay and I had a date day. I decided to make the most of his current unemployed status by taking a little time for ourselves. Friday is my normal day off and I usually fill it up with shopping for fruit and veg at the wonderful Flemington Markets, shopping for the endless array of gifts the children need for the never ending array of children's parties they attend, occassionally taking my grandma out for lunch or one of many other tasks which cry out for my attention on my "day off".

But yesterday was a little space for us to enjoy some couple time. I chose a movie and yum cha and after dropping the kids at school and having a standard (don't panic!) blood test we turned up at Rhodes for a 10:30 AM session of I Love You Too.

This is the new Oz film written by and co-starring Peter Helliar. Maybe I'm going soft in my old age but I LOVED THIS FILM. Not just liked a lot but LOVED IT, as in I wanted to see it again the very minute it was finished.

It was full of Oz-isms which made me happy and warm and comfortable, like coming home after a hard day and putting on my comfy pyjamas and slippers and drinking a cup of tea on my sofa in front of a re-run of Roseanne. Sort of like The Castle (which I also love with every fibre of my being) but not quite the same.

Like Kevin Smith, Peter Helliar does the sort of dialogue I adore. For me it's the dialogue which makes a film terrible, OK or outstanding. Yes, Avatar had brilliant graphics and effects but I couldn't remember a single word, let alone line, of dialogue if you held a gun to my head.

The characters are endearing and interesting without being bizarre. The story is little and sweet, like a darling little cupcake which looks gorgeous and gives you a couple of perfect mouthfuls you'll remember fondly for a very long time. As I write this I want to watch it again, right now. Relive the little moments, the little bursts of happiness, sadness and laughter.

It is funny that in a week when I was dwelling on the fact that so few movies really touch me and stay with me (like Say Anything, for example) a perfect tiny gift like I Love You Too drops into my lap and my heart.

Hipstamatic, baby!

I read about this on Dooce.com a while ago but didn't pay much attention until I came across it again today while playing with my apps (yes, damn it, I have an iPhone and I hate myself for it, but it's so good I'll have to learn to live with the shame).

Generally I have found taking photos on my iPhone a boring and non-user friendly task, especially compared to the camera on my old Nokia N95 which was very very good. Until today.

This is the most fun you can have with a small hand-held device (well, almost). It certainly kept me entertained during a dreary day at the SCG, where the Swans were systematically humiliated by the Fremantle Dockers (oh vey!).

Here is a taste of what it can do:

At the wedding we shouldn't have been at...

Big Jay and I at last weekend's wedding, before all the weird feelings and shit.

Beautiful day, Harbour Bridge, Alannah Hill dress... all good until those stupid feelings had to ruin everything.



In other news, another wedding may be in the works. Stay tuned...

Definition of surreal

Having a conversation with my mum and sister about the possibility of the stripper who my sister organised for my hens' night over 12 years ago being available to "perform" at my mother's upcoming cocktail party for her friends. Weirder still is that my sister is a FB friend with the aforementioned stripper who used to be in Manpower (or some such) but is now a choreographer. After some FB to-ing and fro-ing it was discovered he no longer did stripping himself but could recommend some of the younger boys he now choreographs for. After some more to-ing and fro-ing my mother decided against such form of entertainment for reasons I can't possibly describe here (no, not those reasons).

How did my life come to this?

P.S. Further surreal aspects of my life right now: I will be having coffee with my ex-husband on Saturday morning. Haven't seen him for 10 years or so, will be interesting to catch up. Sure he left me for my best friend's (at the time) sister-in-law after meeting her at their wedding, but any hard feelings have long since evaporated (and she did end up helping BIg Jay and I buy a very nice Ikea bedroom suite for a give-away price).

Funny!

We went to see Janeane Garofalo and Greg Behrendt at the Sydney Opera House on Friday night. I've been a fan of Janeane's for a long time, particularly for whacky little flicks like Clay Pigeons and Mystery Men, though she's been in quite a few. She is the sort of dark funny which really appeals to me.

She didn't disappoint on Friday night though I felt her off beat timing and dark leanings went over the top of many heads in the audience. I enjoyed her performance a lot.

Greg Behrendt was very much an unknown quantity. I knew he had co-written He's Just Not That Into You but apart from that I wouldn't have recognised him if I had fallen over him. Sometimes not having any sort of pre-conceived ideas works the best. He killed me.

God! He is a very funny dude! Not much point paraphrasing any of it but I do want to comment on his concert for older people routine. He suggests having concerts just for us older people (I think he suggested 28+). We'd pay extra to keep out the young people (who I think we all agree are just plain annoying, just like we were back way when). The concerts would start at 7 pm, no support act, just the hits, then home by 9 pm to watch our favourite shows. I hear you Greg, I really hear you! [These would also be a great marketing point for my Concert Catheter invention.]

If you get to see these people do live comedy, do yourself a favour...

Lesson learnt

Yesterday I learnt a valuable life lesson:

Don't go to your sister's ex-boyfriend's wedding.

Seems obvious in hindsight, but then that's always 20-20. Isn't that what they say?

The said ex-boyfriend is also an employee of the company I work for, the family company run by my dad and his business partner, which has been my extended family and home-away-from-home for the past 19+ years. AB has worked there for 15+ years and I have come to regard him as part of my extended family as well. Especially after he had a meaningful, if difficult, relationship with my dear sister for a couple of years.

He and I have always got on well. We talk and laugh, though I'm sure we're quite opaque to each other as real people. I hold him in high regard as a work colleague and a person.

I didn't think twice about accepting the invitation to his wedding. It never occurred to me not to, that there could possibly be any sort of problem. Only that it may have been awkward for my sister, but she assured me she was cool with it.

But during the speeches (strangely not at all during the ceremony) it hit me like a tonne of bricks. Whoa! I did not see it coming. AT. ALL. The feelings (fuck, I hate feelings)... they just came flooding through and it took a lot of self control and staring intently into the middle distance not to burst into tears. The "what could have been", the "why?", the "fuck, fuck, fuck, what am I feeling here?" feelings.

I struggled with the words and the eye contact when saying my goodbyes to the bride (if I didn't come across as thoroughly insane I will be very surprised). We left early, feigning tiredness and having to drive my dad home, when in reality I just couldn't wait to get away. Very suddenly I felt very very wrong.

Well enough about my psychological problems for one Sunday afternoon. As you were.

Recruitment Advertising

I've not had my mind on the job re: blogging lately. Or to be more precise I've had my mind on it but I've just not been able to squeeze it into my days/weeks.

Big Jay is officially a house husband at the moment due to his redundancy and I have been spending a great deal of time searching job websites. It's a whole new world of bullshit out there. I haven't had to look for a job for over 19 years so it's an eye opener.

The reason I am doing the bulk of the search work is that you could say I'm more open minded when reading the job ads. Big Jay seems to think that his dream job will have a bold heading "Big Jay's Dream Job" (sort of like he thinks that the mayonnaise will be front and centre in the fridge when he wants it and not hiding behind the grapes on the bottom shelf).

The other reason is that Big Jay doesn't really have a "dream job". He started life as a carpenter/builder, moved onto installation of security doors and 10 years ago fell into telecommunications/IT support. He enjoyed his last job and was very good at it but he is not an IT head. He's not one of these people that the employment ads require ... "passionate about IT". Big Jay likes getting the job done and he likes getting on with people and he likes leaving people happy about the job he has done. But the actual IT part, he could take it or leave it.

So at the age of 40 he finds himself good at a number of things but not particularly expert or passionate about any of them. So we've sent off applications to a fairly wide variety of positions. He's had a couple of interviews. He's squeezed in two short courses. Today and tomorrow he's helping a friend with a small building project. You could say he's keeping busy.

What I've really learnt from this past week and a half of having Big Jay around a bit more is that I really like it. I would love to have a house husband. It's not so much the extra help with the housework that I'm appreciating. It's the extra help with the kids. For a start I've been able to get to the gym three times since last week. I've missed going to the gym and I'm loving having the opportunity to get back there.

Anyway, I started with an idea to write about the weird and ridiculous world of recruitment advertising but I've ended up blathering on about nothing. Suffice to say job ads are a weird and wonderful breed. They range from two lines which tell you almost nothing about the position to point lists requiring twenty different competencies, a degree and the desire to take on a position for $40,000 per annum.

Personally I would love it if we could find a way of living on less (ha! after what I spent on an Alannah Hill dress to wear to a wedding on the weekend we need to start cooking up some meth in the garage for some extra cash) so that Big Jay could work part time and we could have a calmer lifestyle. I just know, short of winning lotto, this can't happen in any practical way.

Now, back to Seek.com.au ...

Just in case my blood needed a little more boiling

A very interesting little article about the tangled web behind saving the planet from imminent climate catastrophe; aka fleecing the folk who care and all the others who don't have a choice.

[F*&# it's good to read this stuff which gives some real structure to what has been weighing on my mind and twisting in my gut for these past few years. Climate change is real but it's natural, not man made and it can't be fixed with Toyota Priuses and paying airlines for less-than-useless carbon offset charges.]

MasterSook

I am borrowing the title of this blog entry from my sister (hope that's OK, JB).

Have you ever seen such a big bunch of whiney little girls as the contestants on this season of MasterChef? Boo hoo, this is for my grandmother. Boo hoo, I've let down my team mates. Stop blubbering and cook.

Having said that, let me say this. GO, ALVIN! You cute little gay scientific officer, you!

Furthermore, this morning I won Julie Goodwin's cookbook in a Fountain Sauce competition. So it's all MasterChef, all the time, around here.

But I actually have something sensible to say about cooking following on from that rambling about all things MC.

Strangely, considering that Big (not so much now) Jay and I have been on a Leptin Green Coffee 800 based loosing weight frenzy these past six weeks or so, I have also been on a bit of a cooking frenzy this week. Because these recipes have come out so well I thought I might share them with you, loyal reader, just in case you're looking for something new to spruce up your winter menu.

1) Chocolate and Almond Brownies

I found these on the Taste.com.au website when I was trying to use up some sour cream I didn't want to throw out. I love brownies but have never found a really good recipe that has excited me.

These are good. The sour cream makes them moist, even after a couple of days. The almonds add a nutty crunch contrast which I love. I don't put in as much sugar as they suggest, I only put in about 1/2 to 3/4 of a cup. I also use maple syrup instead of golden syrup. I have also added and/or substituted other types of chocolate including half dark cooking chocolate/half Mars bars (I had a couple of fun size laying about in the back of the fridge). The brownies always turn out just right.

2) 12 hour slow cooked lamb

I found a version of this recipe in a Gourmet Traveller which found it's way into my hands recently (great magazine, I've asked for a subscription for Mother's Day). I didn't use the spice mix in the original recipe because I didn't have the necessary ingredients and I didn't want a middle eastern flavour.

My version involves making a paste of an onion, some garlic (I used quite a lot, maybe 8 or 10 bits), lemon zest and juice and olive oil. I rubbed this paste all over a 2.5 kg leg of lamb and covered in plastic wrap and then foil and left in the fridge for 36 hours (I would probably leave for at least 24 hours). I then took it out of the fridge for an hour and put in the oven at 110 degrees for 10.5 hours (I know, I got impatient at the end). The lamb was absolutely beautiful, not quite fall off the bone, but very moist and tender and wonderful. Next time I might turn up the heat to 120 degrees or just find a little more patience and leave it in there for the full 12 hours.

3) Lamb, lentil and vegetable soup

This recipe is a variation on one I made a lot last winter (mainly because I wound up with a great deal of frozen, left over roast beef and lamb... long story). This recent version involved the left over slow roasted lamb, as above. I trimmed all the meat from the bone and placed in the slow cooker with 6 cups of stock (4 cups chicken, 2 cups vegetable - just what I had available, use what you have). Also a large tin of chopped tomatoes and a cup of dried green lentils (brown or red lentils or barely would work just as well). I diced up a whole lot of onion, garlic and celery and a small sweet potato (because I like them) and fried them gently in some olive oil to caramlise and add some flavour. I then tipped them into the slow cooked with the other ingredients. I would suggest seasoning to your own taste, I tend to cook a little bland because that's how the children like it and because Big Jay pours on salt and pepper onto everything before tasting a mouthful.

I left all this on for about 6 hours on low and then turned it up to high for about 1 1/2 hours at the end. You could probably just cook it on high for about 4 hours for a very similar result.

Hearty and delicious. A big pot lasts for a few days, including work lunches for me. The kids love it. When we have it for dinner I make some croutons out whatever bread or rolls we have laying about.

4) Spicy-ish Pumpkin Soup

This year I've been back shopping at Flemington Markets and the beautiful fresh produce always inspires me. Two weeks ago I bought a gorgeous medium sized Jap pumpkin for $2. After peeling and seeding I got 3.5 kg of pumpkin flesh from it. I put all that in the slow cooked with two chopped up onions, some garlic, ginger (I think it was the young ginger I bought which added an extra zing) and one bit of lemongrass, as well as two teaspoons of korma curry paste and one tin of Carnation Light Evaporated Milk, Coconut Flavour. This cooked for about 6 hours on the low setting. I then left it too cool for about an hour before putting it through the blender in batches (my hand held blender thingy has some awful fungal infection which should lead me to buy a new one but I can't bring myself to do so yet as this one is quite new and barely used, shame!).

Anyway, the result was a beautiful pumpkin soup with so much flavour - Big Jay and I just love it. However, it is just a little too spicy for the kids (next time I will omit the lemongrass and most of the ginger). The freezer is full of soup right now which gives me a satisfying feeling, knowing there is a quick meal only a microwave zap away.

OK, enough domestic goddess bollocks for one day.

We're off to the Swannies... and tomorrow is Will's 11th birthday and a soccer party.