I'm a little over seventeen thousand words into the NaNoWriMo thing now and have realised that the IKEA office chair we bought a year ago for less than fifty francs is about as comfortable as being folded in a suitcase for long periods. The back refuses to lean straight, so I end up impersonating a 'less than' sign by the end of the day.
I'm now forty four years old and, in addition to IKEA-acquired back pain was forced to celebrate my birthday a helluva lot earlier than I would have liked thanks to the very uncharacteristic behaviour of the Swiss couple living upstairs from us.
They had a loud party. At this time last year, Guilliame left a prominent note about his upcoming party sticky taped in each lift, entry door and a copy in everybody's mail box. Whatever carousing occurred, it occurred without us hearing a thing.
This year, however, they had different plans. No notice but lots of noise. My guess was that they'd eaten (and drank, clearly) out somewhere and, in the forgivingly warm fug of fondue and booze decided to invite everyone back to their place to continue on.
At midnight, I was driven to the living room. Not by the party (although the girls could have done me a favour by kicking off their heels. Parquetry floors become painful percussion instruments when stilettos are clacking on them), but by Love Chunks.
He was due to leave for the US the following morning and, perhaps to ease my sadness at his absence on my birthday, his ENT system decided to put on a snoring performance not heard - or suffered - for at least a decade. No amount of whispered threats, loud sighs or sharp pokes in the back to turn the hell over made a shred of difference to the Angry Elephant Bellowing at a Whipper Snipper sounds he was emitting.
In the living room, the party was kicking on. Midnight was fine, but at 2am the scraping chairs, loud laughs, screeching giggles and singing Happy Birthday (in English) for the tenth time was officially being classed by my bloodshot eyes as inconsiderate.
My book was fascinating, but not to the extent of blocking out the noise from LC or upstairs.
Then the doof doof started. At 2:30am. It was high time to grab the front door key and take some action.
Ratta tatta tatta went my knuckles on his wooden door. Guilliame opened it to see me with sticky hair, ugg boots and dog breath. "I've had enough mate. Turn the music off and please be quiet."
'Mate' slipped in from god knows where. Guilliame was torn - he looked over his shoulder at the chaotic hilarity occurring in his dining room and back at the exhausted old bag in a brown dressing gown standing angrily in front of him. "Sorry," he said quickly, shutting the door in my face.
Back downstairs, it was a relief to hear the music end. The chair scraping, yelling and parquetry percussion continued until well after 3am.
Love Chunks' alarm went off at six. Drowsily, he whispered, "Happy Birthday, love," before turning on the shower. Milly heard the waking sounds from her bed in Sapphire's room and trotted in to nudge me. "Yeah yeah, I'll take you down for a whizzer."
Passing through the lobby, my aching eyes spied the intercom by the entry door.
BSSSSSSSST BSSSSSSSST BSSSSSSSST!! I hammered Guilliame's button to the world-recognised rhythm of 'Do Me A Favour: Drop Dead!" before scooting outside. If his intercom was anything like ours, it would have drilled through his hungover subconscious and scared the crap out of him. His heart would have required at least ten minutes of deep breathing and checking the fish eye peep hole to get back to less than a hundred beats per minute again. Good.
As for blame, he would have had neighbours upstairs, downstairs and to the left and to the right to consider as angry intercom-abusing arse wipes.
For good measure, I went BSSSSSSSST BSSSSSSSST BSSSSSSSST!! on the way back upstairs.
..... was that wrong?
Showing posts with label ugg boots. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ugg boots. Show all posts
Monday, November 05, 2012
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Post influenza huskiness put to profitable use
“Hello and welcome to Call 1800-UGH for your dose of sensual reality....Kath speaking.”
“Er, hi. What do you, um do?”
“I’m glad you asked, er – what’s your name....?”
(Pause). “Trevor. Yes, it’s Trevor.”
“Okay, ‘Trevor’, this is the deal. I describe to you a typical Wednesday night for long-time-married couples. No soft rock soundtrack or flattering lighting but all the squelches, stumbles and housekeeping requirements of the real thing. You are my star in this particular scenario, my darling. All you need to do is sit back and listen. Does that float your boat?”
(Quietly) “Yes.”
“I can see (taps away at the keyboard) that your credit card number has been approved, thanks for that Trevor. Shall I start?”
(Louder this time) “Yes!”
"Trevor? Are you ready for bed? Thanks for putting the bins out, love.
Why dontcha log off the computer and make yourself nice? The dishwasher’s on, Cody’s staying over at Jackson’s and Zoe is already dead-to-the-world with her Skype headphones twisted around to cover her eyes instead of her ears. It's only 9:30pm and there's nothing good on TV. (in a sing-song voice) It’s Wed-nes-daaaaaaaay.....
Oh sweet heart..... you flossed!
But could you – before you jump in – fold up your trousers and put them on the chair? Unless they’re dirty and then could you put them in the hamper? Loveypuss, I know you'd rather whip them over your head like a lasso before flinging them out into the hallway and it was hilarious and erotic the first time you did it but not now. And can you close the door - you know how curious the dog gets.
.........No, I’m not trying to spoil the moment but it is hard to feel raunchy when you’ve got to shake the dust bunnies off a heap of clothes in the morning and squeeze them into the second load.......
Let’s try again, shall we? You wait here – no, don’t start without me – while I go for a twinkle and clean my teeth....."
(clearing his throat) "What are you doing now?"
"Bear with me, Trevor dearest. I'm going through my nightly ablutions. You don't want almond meal between my two remaining teeth or have to dodge my dragon breath, do you?"
(Hurriedly) "Definitely not. Continue. Please."
"Alrighty, Trevor. Don’t you DARE turn on the reading light or I will not leave this ensuite!
There. I’m in. Oh yeah, the tap water is cold, isn’t it. Guess I should have rubbed my hands together for a minute or two before touching you.
Feel your way baby. That’s not a spare tyre, they’re speed bumps on the ride of your life.
What the....? Never mind, a bandaid just slipped off your elbow. Are we shagging or swimming, heh heh.....
Ooops, pardon me. All this thrusting ends up pushing a bit of gas out.
Sorry about my legs, too. Forgot to shave them this week, so it seems like we’ve sort of created a weird hairy Velcro effect, haven’t we....?"
"Oh Kath, you've nailed it; you really have. I'll be back again next Wednesday."
Thursday, May 05, 2011
Bra-less in ugg boots
He's leering at me again so I'm resting my head in my hands and staring down at my knees, willing not only for his attention to turn back to his drunken mates but also for the damn automatic door to stop opening and blasting me with freezing night air for just one minute.
Heart palpitations is what brought me here. No sooner had I gone to bed feeling relieved that my Rude Finger had reduced in size and swelling than the chest pains started.
I was strangely calm, even when doubled-over in shock and saying "Ooof" every time a spasm that felt not unlike a stick was twisting in my heart. "It can't be a cardiac arrest because my pulse is steady: a decade of running does that to you."
When an hour had passed and the spasms were becoming more insistent I started pacing the living room floor but couldn't find a position that eased things. "Ooof!"
LC woke Sapphire, got her dressed and drove me to Royal Melbourne hospital. I had time to find some tracksuit pants and my ugg boots. Arriving in just a t-shirt and knickers didn't seem the right thing to do, even in a so-called emergency situation.
A panic attack? Pretty bloody likely. But I was calm. Quiet, even. And the spasms of pain were too difficult to ignore - let alone stand up straight - and it didn't feel right to write them off as stress-related.
The night nurse covered me in sticky suction thingies and measured my ECG. All normal. Blood tests were taken (from both arms - I didn't have quite the werewithal that I'd had earlier in the day regarding the Rude Finger to remember to tell them that my right arm is categorically useless for finding a vein willing to give blood) and I was told to sit out in the waiting room and do just that. Wait. "Go home," I whispered to LC and Sapphire. "It's clear that I'm not having a heart attack, so whatever it is will be taken care of."
Four and a half hours later found me missing them both a thousand times eleventy billion triple lutz to the power of three. My warm bed the same amount.
Shivering and acutely conscious of my bralessness, I tried hard to not smell the two homeless blokes who'd arrived separately for a free night on the lino in front of Dem-tel adverts; the woman who moaned every ten seconds as some form of positive self talk as she slumped up against her husband; the father with a severely bee stung face barely keeping the balloon effect down with a now-thawed out ice pack; the loud but mysterious vomiter and the Lebanese boofheads.
I knew that they were Lebanese because they said it. Loud and proud, many times. One of their brothers had injured himself and the six of them were all there to offer moral support.
Said support seemed to involve play wrestling, swearing and frequent visits outside for a smoke or three. When that failed to amuse them, they'd turn their attention to me.
Not a 'what are you here for/we're all in this together' sort of focus, but a "I'm bringing sexy back" sung to me over and over and over again. Apparently it was hilarious. Seeing me clutch my chest and rock back and forth in a hard plastic chair until the attack passed didn't seem to concern or phase them. Or the two hard-faced nurses on the front counter.
Three major car accidents took the resources, interest and energies away from those in the waiting room. The decent, moral and mature side of me entirely understood this, but the frightened, occasionally-convulsed and exhausted little git wanted it to be my turn. Sod the rest of them, when was it going to be MY turn?
At 4.30am, it turned out. Five hours after being told to sit back and wait.
The doctor was lovely. Jeff. Kind, understanding and proficient. "It seems to be a Saturday night on a full moon out there tonight," he said, and after my chest x-ray he said I could wait for the results in the technician's office. Tears filled my eyes with gratitude.
Nothing majorly wrong. Heart, bloods and chest all okay. But the pain?
"Have you been throwing up lately?"
Why yes, now that you mention it. Mr Migraine paid me a three day visit that saw most of Saturday/Sunday taken up with trying to prevent my head from shattering whilst balancing a chuck bucket on my knees and simultanously exploding with diarrhoea. Why do you ask?
Turns out my oesophagus is a bit strained from the violence of heaving for hours with no discernible results. Today my chest feels like it has been stretched out like a strong man's hot water bottle and snapped back into shape with a decided lack of respect or finesse. That I can live with very very gladly.
As I wandered out at 6am waiting for LC to pick me up, the Leb Bros were still in the main foyer, their energies sapped and boredom sending them into snooze mode. I wished them all a hearty, lingering hangover and a chafing rash to the nether regions that no scientific or medical endeavour would never be able to fix.
He's leering at me again so I'm resting my head in my hands and staring down at my knees, willing not only for his attention to turn back to his drunken mates but also for the damn automatic door to stop opening and blasting me with freezing night air for just one minute.
Heart palpitations is what brought me here. No sooner had I gone to bed feeling relieved that my Rude Finger had reduced in size and swelling than the chest pains started.
I was strangely calm, even when doubled-over in shock and saying "Ooof" every time a spasm that felt not unlike a stick was twisting in my heart. "It can't be a cardiac arrest because my pulse is steady: a decade of running does that to you."
When an hour had passed and the spasms were becoming more insistent I started pacing the living room floor but couldn't find a position that eased things. "Ooof!"
LC woke Sapphire, got her dressed and drove me to Royal Melbourne hospital. I had time to find some tracksuit pants and my ugg boots. Arriving in just a t-shirt and knickers didn't seem the right thing to do, even in a so-called emergency situation.
A panic attack? Pretty bloody likely. But I was calm. Quiet, even. And the spasms of pain were too difficult to ignore - let alone stand up straight - and it didn't feel right to write them off as stress-related.
The night nurse covered me in sticky suction thingies and measured my ECG. All normal. Blood tests were taken (from both arms - I didn't have quite the werewithal that I'd had earlier in the day regarding the Rude Finger to remember to tell them that my right arm is categorically useless for finding a vein willing to give blood) and I was told to sit out in the waiting room and do just that. Wait. "Go home," I whispered to LC and Sapphire. "It's clear that I'm not having a heart attack, so whatever it is will be taken care of."
Four and a half hours later found me missing them both a thousand times eleventy billion triple lutz to the power of three. My warm bed the same amount.
Shivering and acutely conscious of my bralessness, I tried hard to not smell the two homeless blokes who'd arrived separately for a free night on the lino in front of Dem-tel adverts; the woman who moaned every ten seconds as some form of positive self talk as she slumped up against her husband; the father with a severely bee stung face barely keeping the balloon effect down with a now-thawed out ice pack; the loud but mysterious vomiter and the Lebanese boofheads.
I knew that they were Lebanese because they said it. Loud and proud, many times. One of their brothers had injured himself and the six of them were all there to offer moral support.
Said support seemed to involve play wrestling, swearing and frequent visits outside for a smoke or three. When that failed to amuse them, they'd turn their attention to me.
Not a 'what are you here for/we're all in this together' sort of focus, but a "I'm bringing sexy back" sung to me over and over and over again. Apparently it was hilarious. Seeing me clutch my chest and rock back and forth in a hard plastic chair until the attack passed didn't seem to concern or phase them. Or the two hard-faced nurses on the front counter.
Three major car accidents took the resources, interest and energies away from those in the waiting room. The decent, moral and mature side of me entirely understood this, but the frightened, occasionally-convulsed and exhausted little git wanted it to be my turn. Sod the rest of them, when was it going to be MY turn?
At 4.30am, it turned out. Five hours after being told to sit back and wait.
The doctor was lovely. Jeff. Kind, understanding and proficient. "It seems to be a Saturday night on a full moon out there tonight," he said, and after my chest x-ray he said I could wait for the results in the technician's office. Tears filled my eyes with gratitude.
Nothing majorly wrong. Heart, bloods and chest all okay. But the pain?
"Have you been throwing up lately?"
Why yes, now that you mention it. Mr Migraine paid me a three day visit that saw most of Saturday/Sunday taken up with trying to prevent my head from shattering whilst balancing a chuck bucket on my knees and simultanously exploding with diarrhoea. Why do you ask?
Turns out my oesophagus is a bit strained from the violence of heaving for hours with no discernible results. Today my chest feels like it has been stretched out like a strong man's hot water bottle and snapped back into shape with a decided lack of respect or finesse. That I can live with very very gladly.
As I wandered out at 6am waiting for LC to pick me up, the Leb Bros were still in the main foyer, their energies sapped and boredom sending them into snooze mode. I wished them all a hearty, lingering hangover and a chafing rash to the nether regions that no scientific or medical endeavour would never be able to fix.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Wednesday Word Verification Edition Eleven
Oooher, I'd better get cracking on this before Wednesday ends. It's been a day of photography, interviewing, coffee, knocking on a stranger's window to find out a local mystery, research, chocolate reviewing, running and giving away a few GoneChocco-related prizes.
Spumer - Unwillingly spitting out a drink in shock, anger or amusement. Recent examples of this include any election parties held on Saturday night; seeing Bob Katter being interviewed since then and reading any of Andrew Bolt's blog posts.
Having a spumer isn't always bad, however. Love Chunks forged a friendship with a workmate of mine after making him laugh so hard he did a spumer across the table and ...... splattered LC with Cab Sav. That was fourteen years ago and we still love him dearly.
Gnoun - Garden gnomes that live anywhere other than gardens. Many Gnouns are forced to become so after being kidnapped and photographed with their new owners who travel around the world. More sedate sightings include those found on desks, on car dashboards, modern ironic art installatios and the scared little guy below who lurks in the darkness of the stairwell that leads its way up to the Victorian Greens office.
Tinonsk - The ill-fated (and usually alcohol-related in the case of adults, or red-cordial-induced when related to children) attempts to mimic the traditional Russian Cossack dance whilst wearing ugg boots and MC hammer pants during camping trips, stays in youth hostels or on sleepovers. When done to the tune of the 1980 Olympic song 'Moscow' the effect is rendered even uglier by a factor of ten.
Flespoem - Anything written on the back of a toilet door that is actually amusing.
Oooher, I'd better get cracking on this before Wednesday ends. It's been a day of photography, interviewing, coffee, knocking on a stranger's window to find out a local mystery, research, chocolate reviewing, running and giving away a few GoneChocco-related prizes.
Onto some word verification/captchas I've had to key into blogger and wordpress this past week, all deserving a definition:
Spumer - Unwillingly spitting out a drink in shock, anger or amusement. Recent examples of this include any election parties held on Saturday night; seeing Bob Katter being interviewed since then and reading any of Andrew Bolt's blog posts.
Having a spumer isn't always bad, however. Love Chunks forged a friendship with a workmate of mine after making him laugh so hard he did a spumer across the table and ...... splattered LC with Cab Sav. That was fourteen years ago and we still love him dearly.
Gnoun - Garden gnomes that live anywhere other than gardens. Many Gnouns are forced to become so after being kidnapped and photographed with their new owners who travel around the world. More sedate sightings include those found on desks, on car dashboards, modern ironic art installatios and the scared little guy below who lurks in the darkness of the stairwell that leads its way up to the Victorian Greens office.
Copip - Putting your corporate colleagues on hold during a tele-conference so that you can have a coughing fit or a sneeze. Before committing a copip, the more practised person is usually able to utter, 'Can we please put you on hold for a moment? My Exec Assistant's just come in with some more information...'
In my own case, a dislodged piece of peanut from a silently-gulped Snickers bar was hawked up and the 'hold' switch walloped before any explanations could be uttered. "Geez, I thought you'd rogered a Walrus," Dennis from Darwin said when all lines of communication were restored.
Afnesses - The dread experienced by thirty and forty-something women when attending a formal event that requires them to slap on the war paint, torture their feet in heels and put on a dress, only to see a twenty-something woman in the same outfit. Younger, slimmer, more stylish and better accessorised. Afnesses are painful and humiliating, and sufferers are advised to either lurk in the more poorly lit areas of the function room or get drunk. Combing both options can also be effective.
Tinonsk - The ill-fated (and usually alcohol-related in the case of adults, or red-cordial-induced when related to children) attempts to mimic the traditional Russian Cossack dance whilst wearing ugg boots and MC hammer pants during camping trips, stays in youth hostels or on sleepovers. When done to the tune of the 1980 Olympic song 'Moscow' the effect is rendered even uglier by a factor of ten.
Flespoem - Anything written on the back of a toilet door that is actually amusing.
Recent examples include: 'Beware of lesbian limbo dancers' scrawled on the bottom of the door;
I always used to be disorganised and run out of time but now I;
and this classic:
Don't beam me up yet, Scotty, I'm having a really good SHI-------^
Sunday, May 16, 2010
WTF TV
If you're as unstimulated as myself, you'll find yourself flipping through the weekly TV guide the day it comes with the Sunday paper just to see if there's anything worth keeping your eyes out for on the box in the upcoming week.
Even if you're not as sadly sedate as all that, I'm sure you'll still not fail to notice just how many acronyms there are for TV shows. Hey, even TV itself is an acronym come to think of it.
The king of acronyms that breed remains the CSI franchise. We have the original CSI (Crime Scene Investigation) set in Las Vegas, and CSI: Miami and now CSI: New York. I'll start watching the day they release CSI: Wagga Wagga.
Current affairs, light-hearted game shows and aliens get in on the act as well: Q&A, QI, and V.
You've also got AFL footy, the NRL Show, Late night NBC news. At the insomniac's hour of 3:00am we have JLF, but I have no idea what it stands for - Juicy Lesbian Fairies perhaps, or Judge's Liver Failure. This is then followed by USA high, Airline USA, Wife Swap USA and various UKs.
If you're as unstimulated as myself, you'll find yourself flipping through the weekly TV guide the day it comes with the Sunday paper just to see if there's anything worth keeping your eyes out for on the box in the upcoming week.
Even if you're not as sadly sedate as all that, I'm sure you'll still not fail to notice just how many acronyms there are for TV shows. Hey, even TV itself is an acronym come to think of it.
MASH was one of the first ones to start it – wisely deciding that Mobile Army Surgical Hospital might not have drawn the 1970s telly viewer in such large numbers. Later on, ER producers also believed that 'Emergency Room' sounded more like a door sign than an engrossing drama.
If I flip through the guide whilst typing this, I notice that we have 'Law and Order: SVU'. No, that's not a Sports Vehicle Utility, but a 'Special Victims Unit'. In other words, it's one of those cop shows where the murder always involves a dead girl who lives a secret life; normally involving prostitution, pole dancing or a sleazy strip club. And yes, the detectives are always compelled to visit at least one of these sordid places in order to solve the crime.
If I flip through the guide whilst typing this, I notice that we have 'Law and Order: SVU'. No, that's not a Sports Vehicle Utility, but a 'Special Victims Unit'. In other words, it's one of those cop shows where the murder always involves a dead girl who lives a secret life; normally involving prostitution, pole dancing or a sleazy strip club. And yes, the detectives are always compelled to visit at least one of these sordid places in order to solve the crime.
To support my blather, here is the actual description for the next episode that screens on Thursday night: ‘Suspicions that the girlfriend of a lesbian artist could be responsible for her sexual assault and murder are overshadowed by an attack on an activist, who is part of a gay advocacy group following the investigation.’ Nice; especially when Mr and Mrs Channel Ten Breathy-Porno Voice-over couple promote the show during every single ad-break during the G-rated MasterChef Australia program.
NCIS is another one, presumably standing for 'Non-imaginative Crime Investigation Series', yet they’ve also created a second stream located in Los Angeles. *sigh*, I mean ‘LA’.
NCIS is another one, presumably standing for 'Non-imaginative Crime Investigation Series', yet they’ve also created a second stream located in Los Angeles. *sigh*, I mean ‘LA’.
The king of acronyms that breed remains the CSI franchise. We have the original CSI (Crime Scene Investigation) set in Las Vegas, and CSI: Miami and now CSI: New York. I'll start watching the day they release CSI: Wagga Wagga.
Current affairs, light-hearted game shows and aliens get in on the act as well: Q&A, QI, and V.
You've also got AFL footy, the NRL Show, Late night NBC news. At the insomniac's hour of 3:00am we have JLF, but I have no idea what it stands for - Juicy Lesbian Fairies perhaps, or Judge's Liver Failure. This is then followed by USA high, Airline USA, Wife Swap USA and various UKs.
OneChannel has embraced the capital with UFC Unleashed, MVP, NBA playoffs, TNA Xplosion, MLB, ANDRA pro-series drag racing, NASCAR nationwide, ATP World Tour Uncovered, ITU World Champions, ANZ netball, SK Telecom Open and MotoGP.
We even had the movie, DOA playing on Saturday night!
To digress a bit, let's now look at numbers, shall we? They too, are now considered important enough to be a show's name. We have - 20/20, Hi-5, 7PM Project, the 7:30 Report, Zontas 100%, 24, Autism Speaks 400.... Why the last one is on the sports channel ‘One’ is a mystery I’m not prepared to sit down and watch in order to solve.
I asked Love Chunks once (and only the once) what acronym he'd choose to describe himself and he immediately shot back with: "BBD. Bloody Big Donger."
We even had the movie, DOA playing on Saturday night!
To digress a bit, let's now look at numbers, shall we? They too, are now considered important enough to be a show's name. We have - 20/20, Hi-5, 7PM Project, the 7:30 Report, Zontas 100%, 24, Autism Speaks 400.... Why the last one is on the sports channel ‘One’ is a mystery I’m not prepared to sit down and watch in order to solve.
I asked Love Chunks once (and only the once) what acronym he'd choose to describe himself and he immediately shot back with: "BBD. Bloody Big Donger."
Hmmm well he may be a physicist and mathetician all that, but there's still a fair share of Benny Hill lurking within.
As for me, it would definitely be WACA - Worrywart And Chocolate Addict.
As for me, it would definitely be WACA - Worrywart And Chocolate Addict.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Domestic Deaths
This month has seen a variety of deaths in the Lockett Lodge.
To be fair, after sixteen years of togetherness, it's to be expected that appliances wear out. We've been through three irons, several kettles, two vacuum cleaners, two 1970s cars and farewelled Love Chunks' 1969-model Kelvinator 'Foodarama' fridge for a Fischer and Paykel, but it seems right now as though everything my index finger even thinks about touching instantly dies.
A couple of weekends ago, LC decided that it was time to have a wood fire in our lounge-room fireplace. We'd had one a few times earlier this winter and it heated up our little weatherboard box so well we wore shorts and leavened some bread.
This time, unfortunately, the electrical paraphernalia that powers the pump device that pushes pesky smoke up the chimney and heat into the house conked out (two of my favourite words are in that sentence: paraphernalia and conked). The nose-hair singeing smell of burnt plastic rapidly combined with a churlish chimney to fill the house up with black smoke, swirling soot and four screaming alarms.
Several minutes later as we assured our frightened neighbours whilst staggering around with bleeding earholes and broomsticks that everything was OK, the house was silent but reminiscent of Pompeii as ash was strewn everywhere. With grey flakes fluttering from his lashes, LC gave a sigh and said, "Right, so we might be looking at a jetmaster gas heater next year then."
Then his beloved Gaggia coffee machine stopped frothing. That was okay, we could live without the froth on top, but when the element stopped heating it made sitting there with a tepid cup of brown a little bit more un-fun. Surprisingly, Love Chunks' farewell to Lady Gaggia was brief and unemotional. Little did I know that he'd already spied her replacement, Mrs Krups.
Like all good Germans Mrs K was big, efficient and fairly quiet. She also ground up the beans which saved us having to do it and sprinkle the counter and floor in dirty brown crumbs. Unlike all quiet Germans, she fluffs up a treat which might - just might - justify what she cost us.
It was also time to get a new computer. I'd written earlier about my laptop no longer having the KNIHL keys visible but that was bearable. Now though, it was labouring so hard that the fan would go into overdrive before giving up, shutting down and vengefully freezing my documents and web pages more effectively than Walt Disney's cryogenic chamber.
Love Chunks researched, found and bought us a desktop computer while Sapphire and I were at my folks' place and we came home to a massive screen, thumping black modem, connected iPod docking station speaker thingumajiggies and wireless keyboard, mouse and remote controls. It is very impressive but still needs a folded up tablecloth under the keyboard so that it doesn't rock and roll over our $19 plastic camping table that we call a desk....
Sapphire's electric toothbrush decided that the 'electric' bit was too tiresome to continue with; my mobile phone needs a dozen strong indentations of my thumbnail (and a fair bit of swearing) before it deigns to turn itself back on (and even then presents me with a thick black line through the middle of the screen) and evilly rearranges my settings; the shower screams like it's having its toenails ripped out whenever the hot tap is turned on and the MP3 player no longer, well, plays. Alternatively, when the stupid device does play it's at 3am when it's sitting in the clock radio slot and suddenly turns on, making me glad I've just been for my nightime wee trip.
So was it any surprise that our kitchen floor boards started lifting, presenting us with a lacquered representation of a Toblerone block, right at the join in front of the dishwasher? I only noticed it when my ugg boot snagged on it, causing me to trip forward and dong my noggin on the fridge door (I'm sure the biscuits I had in my hand are still hiding under it somewhere).
Love Chunks suspected that the dishwasher was leaking and promptly called out a dishwasher um, detective, to figure it out. "Don't you DARE talk to him or offer him a coffee," he hissed down the phone at me during his lunch hour. "This bloke costs $150 per hour, so get him in, get him working and get him out."
Detective Zorran looked like the dark-eyed love-child of Jon English and Stevie Nicks. Despite his bohemian parentage he arrived on time, and with my mental clock - and bank balance - ticking, I ushered him into our kitchen so fast he banged his tool box on the front door but didn't rub his elbow until he was by the back one. "Yep, your motor's gone. It'll cost you $500 to replace plus installation and seeing as they've put in a fourteen year old dishwasher into a new kitchen you're better off buying a new one. It'll be quieter and save you water and all that."
I couldn't help it; I had to talk. "Um, at your hourly rate I guess you could choose between prostitution or mechanics?"
"Umph," his head was underneath the sink. He'd clearly heard that line before.
But I couldn't help it; I had to keep on blathering. "But I guess in both roles you'd be spending a lot of time on your knees, heh heh."
That did cause him to pop his head up and his look of shock actually made me blush and apologise. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to offend you."
"Ah no worries love - I was just going to tell you that the tool who installed this before stuck it to the wrong pipe."
Oh.
And so, as the grand final loomed and the carparks were packed with frantic footy folk looking to buy dips, chips, sausages and sauce we found ourselves at the local Good-Harvey-Warehouse-Crazy-Norman-Guy-John-Homemaker Centre dully looking at expensive silver and white boxes, wishing we'd had the foresight to bring in a sample dinner plate and wineglass to check if they'd fit in or not.
At first bounce the dishwasher arrived because the delivery guy was a staunch soccer fan who was quite happy to miss the game. It fit through our Gates of Hell with ease and was wheeled around the back to reside by Skipper's townhouse until we found a plumber to instal it.
It was then that I noticed, whilst bending down to rub at the rabbit's nose, that the little bugger has nearly eaten through the bottom of both doors and his inner stairwell was hanging together mostly by a fortuitous mixture of compressed turds, wet hay and newspaper scraps. How come they don't make these things out of titanium alloy or kryptonite; he's only had the joint for five months for creditcardssakes.......
This month has seen a variety of deaths in the Lockett Lodge.
To be fair, after sixteen years of togetherness, it's to be expected that appliances wear out. We've been through three irons, several kettles, two vacuum cleaners, two 1970s cars and farewelled Love Chunks' 1969-model Kelvinator 'Foodarama' fridge for a Fischer and Paykel, but it seems right now as though everything my index finger even thinks about touching instantly dies.A couple of weekends ago, LC decided that it was time to have a wood fire in our lounge-room fireplace. We'd had one a few times earlier this winter and it heated up our little weatherboard box so well we wore shorts and leavened some bread.
This time, unfortunately, the electrical paraphernalia that powers the pump device that pushes pesky smoke up the chimney and heat into the house conked out (two of my favourite words are in that sentence: paraphernalia and conked). The nose-hair singeing smell of burnt plastic rapidly combined with a churlish chimney to fill the house up with black smoke, swirling soot and four screaming alarms.
Several minutes later as we assured our frightened neighbours whilst staggering around with bleeding earholes and broomsticks that everything was OK, the house was silent but reminiscent of Pompeii as ash was strewn everywhere. With grey flakes fluttering from his lashes, LC gave a sigh and said, "Right, so we might be looking at a jetmaster gas heater next year then."
Then his beloved Gaggia coffee machine stopped frothing. That was okay, we could live without the froth on top, but when the element stopped heating it made sitting there with a tepid cup of brown a little bit more un-fun. Surprisingly, Love Chunks' farewell to Lady Gaggia was brief and unemotional. Little did I know that he'd already spied her replacement, Mrs Krups.
Like all good Germans Mrs K was big, efficient and fairly quiet. She also ground up the beans which saved us having to do it and sprinkle the counter and floor in dirty brown crumbs. Unlike all quiet Germans, she fluffs up a treat which might - just might - justify what she cost us.
It was also time to get a new computer. I'd written earlier about my laptop no longer having the KNIHL keys visible but that was bearable. Now though, it was labouring so hard that the fan would go into overdrive before giving up, shutting down and vengefully freezing my documents and web pages more effectively than Walt Disney's cryogenic chamber.
Love Chunks researched, found and bought us a desktop computer while Sapphire and I were at my folks' place and we came home to a massive screen, thumping black modem, connected iPod docking station speaker thingumajiggies and wireless keyboard, mouse and remote controls. It is very impressive but still needs a folded up tablecloth under the keyboard so that it doesn't rock and roll over our $19 plastic camping table that we call a desk....
Sapphire's electric toothbrush decided that the 'electric' bit was too tiresome to continue with; my mobile phone needs a dozen strong indentations of my thumbnail (and a fair bit of swearing) before it deigns to turn itself back on (and even then presents me with a thick black line through the middle of the screen) and evilly rearranges my settings; the shower screams like it's having its toenails ripped out whenever the hot tap is turned on and the MP3 player no longer, well, plays. Alternatively, when the stupid device does play it's at 3am when it's sitting in the clock radio slot and suddenly turns on, making me glad I've just been for my nightime wee trip.
So was it any surprise that our kitchen floor boards started lifting, presenting us with a lacquered representation of a Toblerone block, right at the join in front of the dishwasher? I only noticed it when my ugg boot snagged on it, causing me to trip forward and dong my noggin on the fridge door (I'm sure the biscuits I had in my hand are still hiding under it somewhere).
Love Chunks suspected that the dishwasher was leaking and promptly called out a dishwasher um, detective, to figure it out. "Don't you DARE talk to him or offer him a coffee," he hissed down the phone at me during his lunch hour. "This bloke costs $150 per hour, so get him in, get him working and get him out."
Detective Zorran looked like the dark-eyed love-child of Jon English and Stevie Nicks. Despite his bohemian parentage he arrived on time, and with my mental clock - and bank balance - ticking, I ushered him into our kitchen so fast he banged his tool box on the front door but didn't rub his elbow until he was by the back one. "Yep, your motor's gone. It'll cost you $500 to replace plus installation and seeing as they've put in a fourteen year old dishwasher into a new kitchen you're better off buying a new one. It'll be quieter and save you water and all that."
I couldn't help it; I had to talk. "Um, at your hourly rate I guess you could choose between prostitution or mechanics?"
"Umph," his head was underneath the sink. He'd clearly heard that line before.
But I couldn't help it; I had to keep on blathering. "But I guess in both roles you'd be spending a lot of time on your knees, heh heh."
That did cause him to pop his head up and his look of shock actually made me blush and apologise. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to offend you."
"Ah no worries love - I was just going to tell you that the tool who installed this before stuck it to the wrong pipe."
Oh.
And so, as the grand final loomed and the carparks were packed with frantic footy folk looking to buy dips, chips, sausages and sauce we found ourselves at the local Good-Harvey-Warehouse-Crazy-Norman-Guy-John-Homemaker Centre dully looking at expensive silver and white boxes, wishing we'd had the foresight to bring in a sample dinner plate and wineglass to check if they'd fit in or not.
At first bounce the dishwasher arrived because the delivery guy was a staunch soccer fan who was quite happy to miss the game. It fit through our Gates of Hell with ease and was wheeled around the back to reside by Skipper's townhouse until we found a plumber to instal it.
It was then that I noticed, whilst bending down to rub at the rabbit's nose, that the little bugger has nearly eaten through the bottom of both doors and his inner stairwell was hanging together mostly by a fortuitous mixture of compressed turds, wet hay and newspaper scraps. How come they don't make these things out of titanium alloy or kryptonite; he's only had the joint for five months for creditcardssakes.......
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Beauty tips Smeauty Tips
Foundation:
I've never bothered with it because it just makes me look as though I've done a runner from Madame Tussaud's or people look concerned and offer to get me a sugary cup of tea and make me lie down. It seems pretty handy stuff to have under the house though.
Mascara:
I probably should use it, if only to prevent myself from looking like a wet chicken but to be honest I can't seem to apply it without ending up with a jokey extra pair of lashes being smeared onto my upper eyelids and big snotty black chunks on the few tiny hairs I have on my lower lids. And nothing says 'Erk' like staring at someone with black boogers of mascara stuck in their tearducts or having the wrinkles under their eyes emphasised with cartoonish fillers of black.
Day Cream:
Mum was and still is a Nivea Creme afficionado, and due to my fairly English-rose-like complexion as a child I soon had the entire year 5 class rushing out to buy their own blue and white pots. These days, I'll slather some on my face and neck straight after the shower. It's getting to be like a challenging cross country skiing race these days though, because I have to dab it near but not on my pimples. I blame writing (not chocolate) for these, as I tend to sit at the desk with my chin and jaw in my hands, fiddling, picking and encouraging more zit bulbs rather than bonafide literary ideas to bloom. Sadly, Clearasil still stinks as badly as it did in 1982 and the check-out chick was cheeky enough to snigger when I said it was for me.
Essential Beauty Product:
Apart from being an expert in Photoshop, I'd say sleep. It's sad that my face still bears the crease marks of my pillow even an hour after a strong coffee, shower and breakfast and is even more unwilling to fully unfold if the little sleep I did get wasn't refreshing. As it is, my eyes already look as though they're two tiny currants pushed too far into some bun dough, but one day I'm sure my sagging eyebrows will outdo even Clive James's and permanently overshadow my pupils like an awning of ageing flesh, joining up with the bags underneath.
Favourite Makeup Product:
Money in my wallet, not spent at any stupid cosmetics counter. Whatever cream is on special at Coles, especially if it smells nice and isn't instantly licked off by Milly the dog. A good BO-repellent, especially in this era of clingy tops, crowded public transport and being crammed into synthetic sleeping bags.
Perfume:
Lagerfeld's Chloe. I've been wearing it for twenty years and still love it. I go through two bottles a year and it is my only real girlie indulgence. I'm sure it must look/smell a trifle unorthodox to see a woman wearing grey marle trakkies, a bloke's oversized t-shirt and unbrushed hair holding a full dog poo bag yet smelling like a Parisienne model.
Nails:
I cut them as soon as they're long enough to gather any gunk underneath or when Sapphire says, "Ouch Mum, you just scratched me," when I was in fact trying to tickle her instead. Those outlandishly long, rectangular stick ons with painted white stripes on them give me the absolute heebie jeebies and send out a clear message that their owners don't do any work that extends beyond applying polish or opening up a can of Pringles. Invariably too, the more stupid the nails, the fatter the owner: in a desperate effort to detract the viewer from their bulky bodies I presume.
Hands:
A blob of whatever's cheapest rapidly rubbed in as I climb into bed. Love Chunks quite often has the lights turned out, only to hear me:
1) click in my mouthguard (I'm a grinder)
2) kick off my ugg boots
3) have a nice long honking blow into a tissue
4) slip slop slap my hand cream on
5) fumble around trying to set my alarm
6) knock the pile of books on my side table over and
7) invariably fart as soon as I bend over to retrieve them.
......and who said romance is dead?
Feet:
My nails are kept extremely short so that they don't carve up the other toes in my running shoes or bash up against the edge which turns them black before they die completely and fall off, which is not a good look in summer sandals I find. My actual feet are rather large (Dad used to say, "Hey, you'll always have good balance", whereas my brother would crow that I was Ronald McDonald's love child) and are permanently covered in blisters and loose, peeling flaps of skin that, if dried, I can rub up Love Chunks' legs in bed and give him a tiny sanding down of sorts. Overall, they are best hidden in running shoes, uggs or Crocs, which isn't saying much.
Three products to bring on a deserted island:
30+ sunscreen (I burn just thinking about it, and my legs have been known to glow in the dark); dental floss (for all those sand grains and coconut shreds) and soap.
Women I admire for their beauty:
Kate Winslet. Yes she's gorgeous, but she admits that she has to diet like a mad monk and exercise like a Tassie Devil on acid to look the way she does. My Mum - great cheekbones, beautiful eyes, kind smile and a natural dignity and grace that only increases with the years. Sapphire - when she giggles all I see is light and stars.
Woman with the best sense of style:
Any woman who is confident enough to not be sucked in by uncomfortable stacked heels, tight belts wrapped over bulky cardigans, too-skinny jeans, fake-straightened hair, butt-ugly ankle boots, orange tans, stupid scarves that threaten to overtake the entire body, freezing mini skirts, exposed bra straps or hoop earrings wider than their necks.
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My ultimate dream:
To win lotto. Oh, you mean beauty wise? To never look older than my age or ever be described as having a 'lived-in face' - ouch. Looking my age is OK, but I don't want to be handed out retirement village brochures or be offered the handicapped parking spaces just yet. I'm also not interested in having Elle's body, Paris's fortune or Madonna's fame, but a mortgage-free life with opportunities to buy a new car and travel extensively wouldn't go astray. Neither would regular weekly deliveries of fresh Haigh's chocolate.
How do I define Womanhood:
Being a grown up who knows the value of a good bra, a good laugh and the confidence to enjoy her own company. Ask me tomorrow and the answer might be - writing all bad behaviour off as PMS-related, laughing at fashion-fraught teenagers and only looking at my reflection in the sliding door that makes me look skinnier. The day after will be a different story again: a happy child, a one-pot meal that's edible and enjoying easy access to wine.
Favourite fashion publication:
Marieclaire, but just for the laughs. At least once in every page I'll look at a $13,000 handbag and say, "Yeah, right," or the eleven year old anorexic model wearing a bespoke designer kaftan made from cobwebs and coffee dust and think, "Yep, she represents their 30-something readership spot on." Or their hilarious green fashion page which exhorts the reader to plonk down $400 for a bamboo-derived organic t-shirt: that's about my yearly clothing budget!
Any hints you wish to share?
Thanks to Copperwitch from many moons ago, here's a few of my practical and achievable grooming ideas that so many of you have been begging me for for so long. And so often.
Foundation:
I've never bothered with it because it just makes me look as though I've done a runner from Madame Tussaud's or people look concerned and offer to get me a sugary cup of tea and make me lie down. It seems pretty handy stuff to have under the house though.
Mascara:
I probably should use it, if only to prevent myself from looking like a wet chicken but to be honest I can't seem to apply it without ending up with a jokey extra pair of lashes being smeared onto my upper eyelids and big snotty black chunks on the few tiny hairs I have on my lower lids. And nothing says 'Erk' like staring at someone with black boogers of mascara stuck in their tearducts or having the wrinkles under their eyes emphasised with cartoonish fillers of black.
Day Cream:
Mum was and still is a Nivea Creme afficionado, and due to my fairly English-rose-like complexion as a child I soon had the entire year 5 class rushing out to buy their own blue and white pots. These days, I'll slather some on my face and neck straight after the shower. It's getting to be like a challenging cross country skiing race these days though, because I have to dab it near but not on my pimples. I blame writing (not chocolate) for these, as I tend to sit at the desk with my chin and jaw in my hands, fiddling, picking and encouraging more zit bulbs rather than bonafide literary ideas to bloom. Sadly, Clearasil still stinks as badly as it did in 1982 and the check-out chick was cheeky enough to snigger when I said it was for me.
Essential Beauty Product:
Apart from being an expert in Photoshop, I'd say sleep. It's sad that my face still bears the crease marks of my pillow even an hour after a strong coffee, shower and breakfast and is even more unwilling to fully unfold if the little sleep I did get wasn't refreshing. As it is, my eyes already look as though they're two tiny currants pushed too far into some bun dough, but one day I'm sure my sagging eyebrows will outdo even Clive James's and permanently overshadow my pupils like an awning of ageing flesh, joining up with the bags underneath.
Favourite Makeup Product:
Money in my wallet, not spent at any stupid cosmetics counter. Whatever cream is on special at Coles, especially if it smells nice and isn't instantly licked off by Milly the dog. A good BO-repellent, especially in this era of clingy tops, crowded public transport and being crammed into synthetic sleeping bags.
Perfume:
Lagerfeld's Chloe. I've been wearing it for twenty years and still love it. I go through two bottles a year and it is my only real girlie indulgence. I'm sure it must look/smell a trifle unorthodox to see a woman wearing grey marle trakkies, a bloke's oversized t-shirt and unbrushed hair holding a full dog poo bag yet smelling like a Parisienne model.
Nails:
I cut them as soon as they're long enough to gather any gunk underneath or when Sapphire says, "Ouch Mum, you just scratched me," when I was in fact trying to tickle her instead. Those outlandishly long, rectangular stick ons with painted white stripes on them give me the absolute heebie jeebies and send out a clear message that their owners don't do any work that extends beyond applying polish or opening up a can of Pringles. Invariably too, the more stupid the nails, the fatter the owner: in a desperate effort to detract the viewer from their bulky bodies I presume.
Hands:
A blob of whatever's cheapest rapidly rubbed in as I climb into bed. Love Chunks quite often has the lights turned out, only to hear me:
1) click in my mouthguard (I'm a grinder)
2) kick off my ugg boots
3) have a nice long honking blow into a tissue
4) slip slop slap my hand cream on
5) fumble around trying to set my alarm
6) knock the pile of books on my side table over and
7) invariably fart as soon as I bend over to retrieve them.
......and who said romance is dead?
Feet:
My nails are kept extremely short so that they don't carve up the other toes in my running shoes or bash up against the edge which turns them black before they die completely and fall off, which is not a good look in summer sandals I find. My actual feet are rather large (Dad used to say, "Hey, you'll always have good balance", whereas my brother would crow that I was Ronald McDonald's love child) and are permanently covered in blisters and loose, peeling flaps of skin that, if dried, I can rub up Love Chunks' legs in bed and give him a tiny sanding down of sorts. Overall, they are best hidden in running shoes, uggs or Crocs, which isn't saying much.
Three products to bring on a deserted island:
30+ sunscreen (I burn just thinking about it, and my legs have been known to glow in the dark); dental floss (for all those sand grains and coconut shreds) and soap.
Women I admire for their beauty:
Kate Winslet. Yes she's gorgeous, but she admits that she has to diet like a mad monk and exercise like a Tassie Devil on acid to look the way she does. My Mum - great cheekbones, beautiful eyes, kind smile and a natural dignity and grace that only increases with the years. Sapphire - when she giggles all I see is light and stars.
Woman with the best sense of style:
Any woman who is confident enough to not be sucked in by uncomfortable stacked heels, tight belts wrapped over bulky cardigans, too-skinny jeans, fake-straightened hair, butt-ugly ankle boots, orange tans, stupid scarves that threaten to overtake the entire body, freezing mini skirts, exposed bra straps or hoop earrings wider than their necks.
.jpg)
My ultimate dream:
To win lotto. Oh, you mean beauty wise? To never look older than my age or ever be described as having a 'lived-in face' - ouch. Looking my age is OK, but I don't want to be handed out retirement village brochures or be offered the handicapped parking spaces just yet. I'm also not interested in having Elle's body, Paris's fortune or Madonna's fame, but a mortgage-free life with opportunities to buy a new car and travel extensively wouldn't go astray. Neither would regular weekly deliveries of fresh Haigh's chocolate.
How do I define Womanhood:
Being a grown up who knows the value of a good bra, a good laugh and the confidence to enjoy her own company. Ask me tomorrow and the answer might be - writing all bad behaviour off as PMS-related, laughing at fashion-fraught teenagers and only looking at my reflection in the sliding door that makes me look skinnier. The day after will be a different story again: a happy child, a one-pot meal that's edible and enjoying easy access to wine.
Favourite fashion publication:
Marieclaire, but just for the laughs. At least once in every page I'll look at a $13,000 handbag and say, "Yeah, right," or the eleven year old anorexic model wearing a bespoke designer kaftan made from cobwebs and coffee dust and think, "Yep, she represents their 30-something readership spot on." Or their hilarious green fashion page which exhorts the reader to plonk down $400 for a bamboo-derived organic t-shirt: that's about my yearly clothing budget!
Any hints you wish to share?
Friday, April 10, 2009
The perils of packing
“Fine, but why are you taking your iPod and laptop when we’re going to an unpowered camping ground?”
Because I spent several dog years downloading our entire CD collection onto my iPod only to earn a premanently painful crick in my neck and don’t want to have to do it all over again if someone sneaks in and nicks it and the same goes for the computer. I’ve saved far too many LOLcat pictures on there to feel exhausted at even contemplating trying to find them all again, plus there's all my book chapters and several important drafts I’m still working on that will just make me shrivel up and cry in a corner if I ever had to write them over again and I know it’s negative to assume that just because we’re living in a gritty inner-city suburb that we’re automatically going to get robbed but I just don’t want to risk---
“Alright, alright, bring 'em. Are we all ready to go?”
Yep. Oh hang on – have to just go and put Milly on my lap until we get to the dog boarding kennel….. please don’t lick, poochy – what the hell have you been EATING? Satan’s arse would smell better than you! (turning head to the back): Sorry Sapphire, I shouldn’t have sworn like that. Have you been to the loo – good. Let’s go then!
“Hey! How come we’re heading towards the West Gate Bridge and not Caroline Springs?”
Er, sorry, I was busy looking at the pretty sights – was I supposed to have the Melways open? Okay okay, keep your hair on – the 1996 version didn’t have the new road for the dog boarding kennel so how is it going to have the new overpass that only opened last week on it?
Four hours of driving and two hours of unpacking and setting up later:
Just slosh a bit more port into my cup and rip the wrapper off that Lindt block resting on the esky there. Ta.
“Have you seen my head-strap torch?”
Er no, not recently.
“While I’m out getting the gas and the hot-cross buns, can you pack all of our clothes so they fit in one bag?”
I’ll try, but please remember that we have a nine year old child who, over three days, is likely to fall down a hill; slip and do the splits in puddles; dribble baked beans, melted marshmallow and curry down her top and sit on a plate of buttered hot cross buns. As for me, I need my ugg boots and tracksuit if I’m to find any kind of warmth in an ancient sleeping bag with nothing but a layer of parachute material between me and the night air and our parkas seem to be about as bulky as Kirstie Alley clad in a King-sized continental quilt. There are hot showers at the site, so I would like to be able to take a towel, wash my bound-to-be-filthy-from-living-in-the-outdoors-body and then have the luxury of stepping into clean underwear afterwards. But sure, I’ll try and dehydrate everything into a silver vaccum pack the size of a cuppa soup sachet and we’ll see how it goes.
“Bloody Bunnings, K-Mart and Rays’ Tent City don’t have any gas cylinders left, said they forgot to order in extras for Easter!”
Oh, you’re back already? Never mind, defrosted bolognese will be a new kind of holiday challenge, and it’ll free a bit of space in the back of the station wagon. Or couldn’t biscuits and cheese be considered a meal? Why are you frowning? Don’t walk away from me – I’m just trying to be helpful – this is meant to be FUN, isn’t it?
“The Sherrin just has to come.”
Fair enough, but we also have to fit in our tent, three sleeping bags, three folding chairs, two card tables, an esky, five shopping bags of food, four plastic tubs filled with our cooking and eating gear, tarpaulins, our clothes, water containers, pillows, blankets, blow-up mattresses, the blow-up mattress blower thingy that connects to the car cigarette lighter, stove-top coffee percolator, beanies, toasting forks, dishwashing bucket, cameras, bathroom bags, torches, gaslight, bottles of wine and this massive bag of choc bunnies that I somehow have to hide from the three other families of kids who are still believers…… oh but can we perhaps lose the bocce balls?
“But we’ve got heaps of space in the back seat.”
Yeah but Sapphire needs to sit somewhere and you know her tendency to projectile vomit if she doesn’t have a view out of both windows and the dashboard air vent blowing directly into her face. The car still pongs of reconstituted chup-a-chup, egg sandwich and apple slices from last time. And remember when the lid of the esky flew off and chipped her tooth?
Er no, not recently.
“While I’m out getting the gas and the hot-cross buns, can you pack all of our clothes so they fit in one bag?”
I’ll try, but please remember that we have a nine year old child who, over three days, is likely to fall down a hill; slip and do the splits in puddles; dribble baked beans, melted marshmallow and curry down her top and sit on a plate of buttered hot cross buns. As for me, I need my ugg boots and tracksuit if I’m to find any kind of warmth in an ancient sleeping bag with nothing but a layer of parachute material between me and the night air and our parkas seem to be about as bulky as Kirstie Alley clad in a King-sized continental quilt. There are hot showers at the site, so I would like to be able to take a towel, wash my bound-to-be-filthy-from-living-in-the-outdoors-body and then have the luxury of stepping into clean underwear afterwards. But sure, I’ll try and dehydrate everything into a silver vaccum pack the size of a cuppa soup sachet and we’ll see how it goes.
“Bloody Bunnings, K-Mart and Rays’ Tent City don’t have any gas cylinders left, said they forgot to order in extras for Easter!”
Oh, you’re back already? Never mind, defrosted bolognese will be a new kind of holiday challenge, and it’ll free a bit of space in the back of the station wagon. Or couldn’t biscuits and cheese be considered a meal? Why are you frowning? Don’t walk away from me – I’m just trying to be helpful – this is meant to be FUN, isn’t it?
“The Sherrin just has to come.”
Fair enough, but we also have to fit in our tent, three sleeping bags, three folding chairs, two card tables, an esky, five shopping bags of food, four plastic tubs filled with our cooking and eating gear, tarpaulins, our clothes, water containers, pillows, blankets, blow-up mattresses, the blow-up mattress blower thingy that connects to the car cigarette lighter, stove-top coffee percolator, beanies, toasting forks, dishwashing bucket, cameras, bathroom bags, torches, gaslight, bottles of wine and this massive bag of choc bunnies that I somehow have to hide from the three other families of kids who are still believers…… oh but can we perhaps lose the bocce balls?
“But we’ve got heaps of space in the back seat.”
Yeah but Sapphire needs to sit somewhere and you know her tendency to projectile vomit if she doesn’t have a view out of both windows and the dashboard air vent blowing directly into her face. The car still pongs of reconstituted chup-a-chup, egg sandwich and apple slices from last time. And remember when the lid of the esky flew off and chipped her tooth?
“Fine, but why are you taking your iPod and laptop when we’re going to an unpowered camping ground?”
Because I spent several dog years downloading our entire CD collection onto my iPod only to earn a premanently painful crick in my neck and don’t want to have to do it all over again if someone sneaks in and nicks it and the same goes for the computer. I’ve saved far too many LOLcat pictures on there to feel exhausted at even contemplating trying to find them all again, plus there's all my book chapters and several important drafts I’m still working on that will just make me shrivel up and cry in a corner if I ever had to write them over again and I know it’s negative to assume that just because we’re living in a gritty inner-city suburb that we’re automatically going to get robbed but I just don’t want to risk---
“Alright, alright, bring 'em. Are we all ready to go?”
Yep. Oh hang on – have to just go and put Milly on my lap until we get to the dog boarding kennel….. please don’t lick, poochy – what the hell have you been EATING? Satan’s arse would smell better than you! (turning head to the back): Sorry Sapphire, I shouldn’t have sworn like that. Have you been to the loo – good. Let’s go then!
“Hey! How come we’re heading towards the West Gate Bridge and not Caroline Springs?”
Er, sorry, I was busy looking at the pretty sights – was I supposed to have the Melways open? Okay okay, keep your hair on – the 1996 version didn’t have the new road for the dog boarding kennel so how is it going to have the new overpass that only opened last week on it?
Four hours of driving and two hours of unpacking and setting up later:
“Kath, isn’t it great to get away from it all?”
Just slosh a bit more port into my cup and rip the wrapper off that Lindt block resting on the esky there. Ta.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Day Twenty Two - Appreciative August
I'll be honest. I love television. More accurately, I love watching a great television show; one that you make sure your arse is on the couch for. "Is Sapphire in bed yet? Spicks and Specks is about to start."
Besides, the pain of slowly limping to the Northland Hoyts eleven days after Sapphire's birth, to see the very ordinary 'The Phantom Menace', then come home, stay silent and wait for Love Chunks to see the evening session before we could talk about it was tragic to say the least. I'd been stitched 'the from the nave to the chaps' as Shakespeare described in 'Macbeth' and had to take in a cushion to stay the full course of the movie.
Blackadder (esp series 2) - my family first discovered this series when channel seven in its wisdom decided to play it over the non-ratings summer holidays of 86-87. I taped each episode, lent the tape to my apricot-cutting mates and we survived the monotonous ordeal of holiday labouring work by quoting silly lines at each other. Even twenty years since the show, whenever I see Tony Robinson talking with archaelogists on BBC's 'The Time Team' or living out 'The Worst Jobs in History,' I still think, "There's Baldrick!"
Janitor: Some hooligan keeps disconnecting the alarm. I told Security to look into it. But no, no, they'd rather catch the guy who's stealing organs from the transplant ward.
Turk: This is the reason why your headache didn't go away: That's actually pronounced analgesic, not anal-gesic. Sir, the pills go in your mouth.
Seinfeld - when we lived in Darwin, poor old Love Chunks was doing the night shift at the weather bureau and I was working normal hours at the Dept of Education and Employment. The car would literally pull up in the driveway at 6:30am on his return, and I'd get in it at 7:30am to drive back into town. Anyhow, one Saturday afternoon I was watching an episode of Seinfeld I'd taped earlier in the week, and LC was sleeping (the way the shifts were figured out, he only got one weekend off in every six). He came stomping angrily out of the bedroom and told me off: "You're laughing too loudly!". That was Seinfeld. Then and still now.
Flight of the Conchords - their realistically tiny New York apartment; Brett's impeccable taste in home made windcheater designs; their deadpan comments; the spunktastic New Zealand tourism office; and for their songs 'Business Time', 'Sello Tape' and of course, Brett's Footloose-fantastic Angry Dance...... Great lyrics "There's people on the streets getting diseases from monkeys; yeah that's what I said, junkies with monkeys...."
The telly
I'll be honest. I love television. More accurately, I love watching a great television show; one that you make sure your arse is on the couch for. "Is Sapphire in bed yet? Spicks and Specks is about to start." As new parents, Love Chunks and I ventured into the DVD, widescreen, cinema-surround sound game relatively early in its availability because we knew that it would form the bulk of our audio/visual entertainment. We are not normally the must-rush-out-and-get-the-latest-electronic-doodaddery kind of people, but we realised that the likelihood of us being able to see something together outside of the home was non-existent, so why not make the experience of seeing things at home a much better one.
Besides, the pain of slowly limping to the Northland Hoyts eleven days after Sapphire's birth, to see the very ordinary 'The Phantom Menace', then come home, stay silent and wait for Love Chunks to see the evening session before we could talk about it was tragic to say the least. I'd been stitched 'the from the nave to the chaps' as Shakespeare described in 'Macbeth' and had to take in a cushion to stay the full course of the movie.
Enough digression, back to the joys of television. Ironically, weeks can go by and the remote control would be lucky if it was troubled by me more than twice a week due to the utter lack of anything appealing to slump in front of. As a kid and teenager, if this was the case I'd still put something on and endure it, but these days I'd rather reach for a book, a DVD or rehash a series that I really did love. Such as.....
Blackadder (esp series 2) - my family first discovered this series when channel seven in its wisdom decided to play it over the non-ratings summer holidays of 86-87. I taped each episode, lent the tape to my apricot-cutting mates and we survived the monotonous ordeal of holiday labouring work by quoting silly lines at each other. Even twenty years since the show, whenever I see Tony Robinson talking with archaelogists on BBC's 'The Time Team' or living out 'The Worst Jobs in History,' I still think, "There's Baldrick!"Scrubs - like low rise jeans and Nirvana, I was a late-comer to this show and discovered it only in the $10 bargain DVD bin. JD (Zach Braff) is brilliantly funny and prepared to get dressed up, sing, humiliate himself and let us question his sexuality in this ridiculously joyous show. For example:
Janitor: Some hooligan keeps disconnecting the alarm. I told Security to look into it. But no, no, they'd rather catch the guy who's stealing organs from the transplant ward.Turk: This is the reason why your headache didn't go away: That's actually pronounced analgesic, not anal-gesic. Sir, the pills go in your mouth.
J.D.: (voiceover) I guess what they say is true the people you work with really do become your family. Like your brother, and your sister in law, (shot of Turk and Carla)
......or that cousin you have funny feelings for (shot of Elliot)
......and the crazy angry uncle everyone sort of hopes isn't coming this year (shot of Dr Cox).
J.D.: Dr. Cox, If you want you can come down here and hang out with...
Dr. Cox: Nobody talk, just drink.
J.D.: (voiceover) Ah uncomfortable silences and alcohol... just like Thanksgiving at home.
Seinfeld - when we lived in Darwin, poor old Love Chunks was doing the night shift at the weather bureau and I was working normal hours at the Dept of Education and Employment. The car would literally pull up in the driveway at 6:30am on his return, and I'd get in it at 7:30am to drive back into town. Anyhow, one Saturday afternoon I was watching an episode of Seinfeld I'd taped earlier in the week, and LC was sleeping (the way the shifts were figured out, he only got one weekend off in every six). He came stomping angrily out of the bedroom and told me off: "You're laughing too loudly!". That was Seinfeld. Then and still now.
The Office (UK version). When we first saw this mockumentary, we marvelled at the brilliance of Ricky Gervais as David Brent - he played him exaggerated enough for us to laugh and yet realistic enough for us to squirm, wondering if we ourselves had ever behaved like that and were unknowingly despised for it. My favourite character was the perpetually bemused Tim, madly in love with Dawn the receptionist, and battling it out every day with second-in-command (in the army reserves if not at Wernham Hogg Paper Products.
David Brent: Look at this - "Dutch girls must be punished for having big boobs". Now you do not punish a girl, Dutch or otherwise, for having big boobs.
Gareth: If anything they should be rewarded.
David Brent: No, they should be equal.
Entourage - I'm not the demograph for this US show (being the wrong gender and age) about a spoiled A-list actor with his hangers on. It's rude, the women are most definitely only decorative plot devices and there's a helluva lot of rap music as the soundtrack but it's hilarious. Crackingly fast dialogue with four characters that are essentially selfish and immature but I love them anyway. Johnny Drama (Kevin Dillon) is especially hilarious. "I'm actually a green belt in karate but I'm wearing yellow because it makes my eyes pop."
Entourage - I'm not the demograph for this US show (being the wrong gender and age) about a spoiled A-list actor with his hangers on. It's rude, the women are most definitely only decorative plot devices and there's a helluva lot of rap music as the soundtrack but it's hilarious. Crackingly fast dialogue with four characters that are essentially selfish and immature but I love them anyway. Johnny Drama (Kevin Dillon) is especially hilarious. "I'm actually a green belt in karate but I'm wearing yellow because it makes my eyes pop."
Flight of the Conchords - their realistically tiny New York apartment; Brett's impeccable taste in home made windcheater designs; their deadpan comments; the spunktastic New Zealand tourism office; and for their songs 'Business Time', 'Sello Tape' and of course, Brett's Footloose-fantastic Angry Dance...... Great lyrics "There's people on the streets getting diseases from monkeys; yeah that's what I said, junkies with monkeys...."
Friends - it's rather dated now, but I'll admit that I eagerly devoured each episode when it was played on prime time Monday nights. I even surfed the web to read the scripts of episodes already played in America, but wasn't interested in reading about Courtney's struggle to have a baby; Jennifer's marriage woes, Matthew's drug addiction or Joey's unfaithfulness. Still aren't.
Wallace and Gromit (the first three shorts) - I loved these when they first debuted and it's a double pleasure to see Sapphire enjoying them now. I'm even prouder to hear her spot-on version of Wallace's Northern English accent when the peanut butter and vegemite is slid over to her for breakfast before school: "Crackin' toast, Gromit."
BBC's version of Pride and Prejudice (1996) - the only one of my two shows that are non comedy. I've always been a huge Jane Austen fan and think that this series started the era of more Austen TV and films that really did their best to respect and complemented her writing and daring world view (for her time, anyway). Witty, wordy and delicious. And yes, Colin Firth. One dark look, that dip in the pond, his perfectly pompous first proposal.....
Survivor (any series). My reality weakness. Yes, the premise is the same in every series - mostly attractive, overly-confident and painful Yanks forced to fight, back stab, win ridiculous events and scheme to get rid of each other. Like Abba, the Cadbury Crunchie and tinned spaghetti on toast, I love it. Seeing models shrink to slices of beef jerky whilst still owning a set of grapefruit-sized knockers is visual comedy at its finest.
Frasier - This show was treated so shabbily by Channel No-Nuts Nine and the repartee between pompous psychiatrist Frasier and his brother Niles was so much fun to hear. I'm just waiting for their season DVDs to go down in price.
(Frasier and Nile's father) Martin: You listen to Bulldog's program?
Niles: Yes, Dad, I can't sleep nights till I find out who hurled what ball through what apparatus.
Niles: Frasier, do you remember the time the Kreizel brothers tied me to their Great Dane and lobbed meatballs down their gravel driveway?
Niles: Frasier, do you remember the time the Kreizel brothers tied me to their Great Dane and lobbed meatballs down their gravel driveway?
Frasier: I told you Niles, I would have helped you, but their sister was holding me down.
Niles: How could I have missed something so obvious?Frasier: Well, it's not so hard to believe. You were fifteen before you discovered there was a correlation between being beaten up every day and going to school in a Panama hat.
Other shows that I'd love to re-watch (if only to show me that their humor is now out of date, or irrelevant) include:
Other shows that I'd love to re-watch (if only to show me that their humor is now out of date, or irrelevant) include:
- The Two Ronnies (some kind of 'best bits' selection)
- Red Dwarf (as with Messrs Corbett and Barker)
- That 70s Show
- Black Books - Dylan Moran and Bill Bailey - heavenly humour!
- Hollow men (getting better with each episode, especially Merrick's character)
- Cheers
- Arrested Development
Shazzbutt!
Monday, August 04, 2008
Day Four - Appreciative August
Renovations Wrapped
For anyone who has lived in a house whilst it is being renovated, the final act of completing the renovation is something to be forever grateful for. And to be proud of, for it is a brave act and one that tests the very core of any stable and loving relationship, including that of your bank account and ability to select tiles together in relative harmony.
We did all of that just last year. In the middle of writing my book at home, I had plumbers jack-hammering the cement floor out of our 84 year old bathroom (ironically during my section on finding time for yourself and learning how to meditate), a doorway being cut through a solid brick wall, internal glass and doors fitted, external french doors installed, wooden floorboards laid, underground rainwater tanks dug and buried, painters everywhere and the never-ending responsibility of making sugary and milky coffees for literally every tradie that stepped over the threshold.
We're happy with the results though:
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In fact I almost feel as though I'm too daggy to live in my own home. My trakkie daks and ugg boots make the place look untidy, let alone my unravelling knitting bag, dog-eared novels, coffee cups, finger prints and pet hairs.
We no longer have dinner to the sounds of "KER-THUNK" as random chunks of ceiling plaster crash to the floor or trip over the cracked laundry tiles that used to fetchingly lead right up to the kitchen in a wet version of the Yellow brick road. Nor do we have the laundry loo door doing a great impersonation of a public toilet with a one foot gap at the top and the bottom to allow sound amplication and viewing to occur.
Our bathroom is tiny (being the original one from 1924) but is now modern and functional. No more 1980s pink-and-brass fittings with a bath that was wider the doorframe and included a shower so awkwardly fitted that you had to stand on the edge of the bath to get a decent soaking.
After a couple of months of streaking outside in the dead of winter to use the Bianco cubicle, we now have a seriously large-n-luxurious shower, a toilet (not there before, which meant my 3am twinkle used to involve a tediously long trek to the back of the house into the freezing cold laundry), a heated chrome towel rail (luxury!), massive vanity unit and mirrored cupboard and some towels that are so fluffy our floors still look as though a Yeti's chucked a tantrum in there.
Home, sweet renovated home. The memories of noise, expense, mistakes, cement dust, mud, plumber's bum cracks, missed appointments, swearing, SAFM at volume knob number eleven and warped boards are a thing of the past. Pretty much.
Renovations Wrapped
For anyone who has lived in a house whilst it is being renovated, the final act of completing the renovation is something to be forever grateful for. And to be proud of, for it is a brave act and one that tests the very core of any stable and loving relationship, including that of your bank account and ability to select tiles together in relative harmony.
We did all of that just last year. In the middle of writing my book at home, I had plumbers jack-hammering the cement floor out of our 84 year old bathroom (ironically during my section on finding time for yourself and learning how to meditate), a doorway being cut through a solid brick wall, internal glass and doors fitted, external french doors installed, wooden floorboards laid, underground rainwater tanks dug and buried, painters everywhere and the never-ending responsibility of making sugary and milky coffees for literally every tradie that stepped over the threshold.
We're happy with the results though:
.jpg)
In fact I almost feel as though I'm too daggy to live in my own home. My trakkie daks and ugg boots make the place look untidy, let alone my unravelling knitting bag, dog-eared novels, coffee cups, finger prints and pet hairs.We no longer have dinner to the sounds of "KER-THUNK" as random chunks of ceiling plaster crash to the floor or trip over the cracked laundry tiles that used to fetchingly lead right up to the kitchen in a wet version of the Yellow brick road. Nor do we have the laundry loo door doing a great impersonation of a public toilet with a one foot gap at the top and the bottom to allow sound amplication and viewing to occur.
Our bathroom is tiny (being the original one from 1924) but is now modern and functional. No more 1980s pink-and-brass fittings with a bath that was wider the doorframe and included a shower so awkwardly fitted that you had to stand on the edge of the bath to get a decent soaking.After a couple of months of streaking outside in the dead of winter to use the Bianco cubicle, we now have a seriously large-n-luxurious shower, a toilet (not there before, which meant my 3am twinkle used to involve a tediously long trek to the back of the house into the freezing cold laundry), a heated chrome towel rail (luxury!), massive vanity unit and mirrored cupboard and some towels that are so fluffy our floors still look as though a Yeti's chucked a tantrum in there.
Home, sweet renovated home. The memories of noise, expense, mistakes, cement dust, mud, plumber's bum cracks, missed appointments, swearing, SAFM at volume knob number eleven and warped boards are a thing of the past. Pretty much.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Shut the bloody door!
All youse non-Austrayan readers of this 'ere blog probably assume that our big bugger of an island is always hot, sunny and dry. To be fair, that assumption is mostly right, but we do have our four seasons like you guys do, just in the opposite order.
So while I'm reading your blogs about summer vacations, sunburn and strappy sandals, I've almost wrapped my legs around my tiny little oil heater as though I'm Julia Roberts doing the same to Richard Gere in the spa bath in 'Pretty Woman'. It's frickin' freezing here.
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And don't just take my word for it. Even the foreigners from the northern hemisphere - hailing from much cooler climes than here - shiveringly agree with me.
Sarah, a Milwaukee native who learned from an early age never to go outside with wet hair or volunteer to shovel snowy sidewalks, was standing at the school gate the other day, clad in about three jackets, shivering in her shoes. London-born-and-bred Mick was next to her, waiting for his daughters to emerge; with Swedish Goddess Thorun shuffling rapidly from side-to-side and huffing warm air into her clenched fingers.
I ambled over and asked the most obvious, conversation-starter question that we say when we can't think of any other thing to start off with (and hate ourselves for our predictable lack of witty originality): "Pretty cold today, isn't it?" What an understatement: I had goosebumps on my flippin' head.
Thankfully Sarah is a kind person, and didn't roll her eyes. "Yeah."
Still mired in minus mental facilities, I stumbled on. "But hey, you guys are all from cold countries, so shouldn't you be used to this?"
They all politely swallowed their sighs and took the time out to explain it to me. Firstly, their countries have central heating as standard, throughout all of the rooms of their home.
In the meantime, there's only this idea.
Maybe we're all better off hiding under the doona and staying there until spring comes again.
Please shut the door on your way out, 'Kthnxbye
All youse non-Austrayan readers of this 'ere blog probably assume that our big bugger of an island is always hot, sunny and dry. To be fair, that assumption is mostly right, but we do have our four seasons like you guys do, just in the opposite order.
So while I'm reading your blogs about summer vacations, sunburn and strappy sandals, I've almost wrapped my legs around my tiny little oil heater as though I'm Julia Roberts doing the same to Richard Gere in the spa bath in 'Pretty Woman'. It's frickin' freezing here.
.bmp)
And don't just take my word for it. Even the foreigners from the northern hemisphere - hailing from much cooler climes than here - shiveringly agree with me.
Sarah, a Milwaukee native who learned from an early age never to go outside with wet hair or volunteer to shovel snowy sidewalks, was standing at the school gate the other day, clad in about three jackets, shivering in her shoes. London-born-and-bred Mick was next to her, waiting for his daughters to emerge; with Swedish Goddess Thorun shuffling rapidly from side-to-side and huffing warm air into her clenched fingers.
I ambled over and asked the most obvious, conversation-starter question that we say when we can't think of any other thing to start off with (and hate ourselves for our predictable lack of witty originality): "Pretty cold today, isn't it?" What an understatement: I had goosebumps on my flippin' head.
Thankfully Sarah is a kind person, and didn't roll her eyes. "Yeah."
Still mired in minus mental facilities, I stumbled on. "But hey, you guys are all from cold countries, so shouldn't you be used to this?"
They all politely swallowed their sighs and took the time out to explain it to me. Firstly, their countries have central heating as standard, throughout all of the rooms of their home.
Secondly they don't have vents installed near the ceilings that go directly to the air outside like we do.
- In summer time, yes. Or perhaps no. If heat rises then sure, we want to fling it outside, but if the vent brings in even hotter air from outside it's still being about as useful as a dry sponge in the desert isn't it, or am I not getting some vitally basic point?
Secondly, even their bathrooms have heating and warm towel rails. And by 'heating' they don't mean tepid old tastic lights beaming weakly down from the mould-speckled ceiling or a miserable bar heater up above the mirror (again with the heat rising issue - clearly not helping the poor nude sod standing on icy porcelain tiles several feet lower) either; they mean underfloor heating, a radiator, water proof carpets, cosy copper lined towel rails set to 'toasty'......
Here in Oz, most of us do a nudey-rudey Hop-Squeal-Scamper streak through our houses from the bathroom to the bedroom. For some reason, we all think that running through on our tippy toes will somehow make things easier and/or warmer for us and the added sound effects: "Oherr eek!" will help speed up our journey. With central heating, decent carpeting and a pre-warmed towel we'd be reduced to a languid stroll and a temptation to flash our partners and call out "Whoo Hoo, take a gander at these party pieces" before being told to leave the room and put something flattering on. I'm not sure that the overseas folk win this argument actually.
Mick pointed out that their toilets have windows that can actually close instead of permanently-open louvres. Yes, so do we - if you own a house that's younger than 1960, that is. The houses I grew up in, rented and bought all had 1950s style glass panels that were permanently fixed into the half-open mode. Not so great for privacy if someone wanted to use the hose outside nearest the window (extra echoing too, with all those floor tiles) and even worse for those 3am wee-wees spent gingerly lowering oneself onto the slab of ice that was once a plastic caroma loo seat whilst trying to keep the eyes closed and pretend that you were still asleep.
Torun mentioned their superior insulation. In Sweden they have insulation. Everywhere. Not just a few poxy old pink batts in the roof that are handy for rats and possums to eat and crap on, but in their walls. Plus double-glazed windows and lined floors.
We, on the other hand, either live in double-brick houses (moi) which do keep the heat out in summer for a few days, and the heat in during winter (for a few minutes after the heater's off). Brick venereal owners have an outer layer of brick and then some inner masonite that resembles a fully-plastered wall, but without the insulation, sound-proofing or expense. Add a lack of eaves, verandahs and a boxy second story and you have a home that needs 24/7 cooling and heating and has an energy star rating of minus three-and-a-half (or wait, was that for the movie 'Hey Hey It's Esther Blueberger'?)
Either way, if we're not blessed with energy-guzzling reverse cycle air conditioning, we have a gas or electric fire in the living room. This means that ever time anyone enters or leaves the room, the oldest person (usually the parent) automatically yells out, "Shut the bloody door! Were you raised in a tent?"
The room itself is usually furnished with at least two clothes horses crammed with damp socks, tracksuit pants (they shrink the dryer), school uniforms and jocks. Hopefully the jocks are placed on the wall side so that they're not the first thing that hits the visitors' eyes when they arrive. I've also been known to hang shirts over an exercise bike, door handles and the edges of bookshelves, and my mother has even spread out crockery in front of the 1975 Vulcan bar heater to warm up before serving dinner.
Thus, it is well and truly ironic that such a hot, dry and dusty country has winters that are even less pleasant than countries closer to the artic circle. And no, I don't know where we'd find the money to add in all the comfy extras that those countries have to make things easier unless beer, smokes, flex days, scratch tickets and pokies were completely removed from our culture.In the meantime, there's only this idea.
After a lot of immature sniggering at Ray's Outdoors Centre - and a bit of explaining to Sapphire as to why I was taking a photo of a 'Dutch Oven Carry bag.' Hell, it looks as though it's even shaped to fit my two overly generous arse cheeks in.....
........ and I thought it was perhaps the cheapest way I could improve on home heating. Not sure that Love Chunks agrees with me.Maybe we're all better off hiding under the doona and staying there until spring comes again.
Please shut the door on your way out, 'Kthnxbye
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