It's a funny feeling, having your head shoved into a waste paper basket with a miniature rear vision mirror and long sponges wedged up against the sides to ensure a complete lack of motion.
A decade ago, I was allowed to bring in a CD that was magically piped into the tube, but today I'm grateful that the radiographer speaks English and has offered me some ancient cheeseburger-shaped headphones to muffle the noise. "Cuckoo!" he says cheerfully, more than once, tapping my arm. "You can keep your eyes open but will see only a white wall. Better to keep them closed and think of nicer things," he trills, eyes glinting merrily. "Cuckoo!"
My response was the usual 'thumbs up' and a wink before the bed glided slowly into the MRI cavity. "Keep your arms still now," he called as he walked towards the office. "Cuckoo!"
The knocking, buzzing, whirring and pulsing sounds seemed a lot louder than ten years ago. Perhaps having Tom Petty singing of how he learned to fly without any wings made it less noticeable back then. Whilst loud, being a recent survivor of a migraine on a long haul flight meant that today's closed-in cacophony didn't seem any worse than the endless gullet humming of aeroplane engines. This was a mere forty five minutes with a pause at some indeterminate time for Mr Cuckoo to inject my arm with some contrast solution and return to making more percussive x-ray racket.
Despite having my eyes squeezed shut, an enclosed cranium and rapidly-numbing hands that I'd foolishly interlaced together, my mind did start wandering.
Reminders to not forget to make a dental appointment for Sapphire; buy some minced garlic and ginger from the Asian Spices shop in Servette; borrow a Frank Zappa DVD for research purposes; ask ex-travel agent friend G for her Spanish recommendations, finish up two overdue articles; and check with Vic Roads: did they ever send me my drivers' licence after my wallet was stolen a year ago?
The recent, lingering bout of flu meant that my nose started to twitch. Normally a loud and proud honker, I realised that the second option - sniffing it juicily back from whence it came - was not available as it would cause some head movement. The third option was not so much chosen as inevitable: lie there uselessly as snot dribbled ever-so-slowly out of my right nostril and down towards my ear.....
My thoughts turned from minor errands to bigger issues. Recent disappointments. Lies told by someone willing to let an innocent person take the blame, and my lack of influence to make the situation a fair one. Decisions to carry on regardless, consciences utterly clear. How, at forty four, people's behaviour still managed to shock and confuse me.
Then, of course, the here and now butted in as a cough started to tickle my chest. Instead of actively ignoring the wet creeping sensation of phlegm edging towards my ear hole, I actively meditated on it. Could this snail trail be a metaphor representing the build up of migraines over the past year or so? A sluggish sojourn back to boringly detailed food diaries, lost days and blurred vision? A glacial yet inevitable journey towards this day, an MRI scan, to see if the tumour had returned?
Sapphire's face immediately popped into view, as did Love Chunks' and Milly's. Three warm beings equalling my home. A wheeze emanating from my throat was discernible between magneto-zappings. The cough was impatient: it wanted air time and to get out of my prone body NOW. I swallowed a few times, taking care not to wiggle anything above my lower lip. Somehow this caused the moving mucus to pause at my temple.
Excellent timing, as the piercing clamour orchestrated by Mr Cuckoo had also ended.
"You are very good at keeping still, very good. Cuckoo!" he laughed, removing the pillow from under my knees, as I stretched and surreptitiously wiped the snot away with my arm.
"Did you see anything on the scans," I asked, sitting up and shaking some feeling back into my fingers.
"Oh no no, don't go there," he said, waggling his finger at me in mock dismay. "I am only the technician today. You will find out in two days."
A few minutes later with my scarf, boot, coats, watch, rings and bangles back on, I strolled towards the Number 14 tram in the fog. What did I want the result to be? A returned tumour to blame the recent symptoms on, or the relief of no tumour but also no reason?
A car horn beeped at me, disturbing my reverie. I had every right to cross here on the yellow lines..... oh, it was my favourite Parc de Trembley gardener, lover of tennis and all things Federer. "Federer lost but the Australian open was good as ever," he called out to me.
"Oui!" I yelled in return. "Federer est nombre un pour moi!" Morning shift long over, he roared off into the mist. It felt good that he recognised me in a different suburb wearing my 'nice' clothes as opposed to my XXXL Man-sized coat and without Milly by my side.
An hour later, I walked into the apartment with two bags of fragrant spices, some interesting chocolate biscuits to share with friends and a dog eager to go to the park and sniff for squirrels. The result didn't matter.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Monday, January 28, 2013
Monday, November 05, 2012
17,022
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?
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?
Friday, November 02, 2012
November Knob head?
I'm an idiot.
Most likely very arrogant.
Undoubtedly vain.
And incredibly optimistic.
I've decided to have a go at National Writing Novel Month or NaNoWriMo for short. November has been allotted for all aspiring novelists to vomit up at least 50,000 words by the end of the month. Really it should now be called International NoWriMo because it has spread way beyond the US and has done so for a number of years now. Never mind; I'm wasting precious time....
Word count is key: not editing or quality or re-writes or second - let alone final - drafts.
As the (old and ageing) Princess of Procrastination, InNoWriMo (as I'm now going to refer to it) might be the only way that one of my three ideas for a novel gets done. The one I've selected is not likely to bowl anyone over with surprise or knock 'em out with creativity or insight, but somehow seems to be the one that's been calling me over the past few weeks; begging me to give it some time and effort.
Of course, this ridiculous challenge falls within a month of appointments, commitments already made, floors so filthy they crunch when you walk on them, Love Chunks being overseas for two weeks and thus conferring temporary Single Mother status on me and ..... Sapphire's stomach issue rearing its ugly, unwanted and undeserved head again.
The pain, exhaustion and white-faced fatigue has returned for her. Three days off school so far and a few minutes ago she went dejectedly back to bed, knowing that unless a miraculous turnaround occurs tomorrow she won't be cooking my birthday cake or having her best buddy over to stay.
In fact, when Elmo is invited into her bed, it's clear that she's sick. Not that she'll let me show you the photo I took which would have left you with a much nicer visual image to continue your day with than the mental nightmare of me being handed a pair of sterilised rubber gloves and a syringe by the doctor in order to obtain a special 'sample' for the Zurich clinic that left both Sapphire and myself horrifed and doubled over laughing at the same time. "Good!" I gasped, "Stay that way and make it easier for me!"
Results come back next week and, until then, I have a poorly teenager and a dog who is already bearing the brunt of said teen's handiwork:
Wish us all luck....
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Carrefour, chicken breasts and cat crap
It is Day Four now and, unlike human house guests, I can’t blow my nose in the shower because the noise and reverberation – enhanced tenfold by the high ceilings and tiles stuck to the roof level – makes my brain cry, then swell and finally pump out a rhythmic heart beat of pain that sees me doubled over and able to touch my nose to the Jovial Douche label on the shower gel bottle.
Still, it’s a Wednesday and it’s been a while since I’ve tried to depict what an average day for a work-from-home freelance writer involves.
Of course, there isn’t really an ‘average’ day. Factors such as how many jobs I’ve bid for versus how many additional queries from potential clients need to be responded to compared to how many jobs I’m currently working on + scheduled Skype calls + new jobs won + repeat clients x those who email me rather than apply via the online agencies – freebies for friends divided by a truckload of procrastination.
So here goes.
6:45am - The alarm on my digital watch goes off. Peep-peep twenty times until it gives up. No snooze or repeat on this little thing. I can hear LC in the shower and Sapphire’s toilet flushing. My head hurts and I don’t move.
7:00am - Trouble is, my watch has two alarm settings, so 7am goes off also, peep-peep, twenty times. I get up, slide on the wedding ring and watch, take my Effexor and put on my Dog Clothes. At the first clink of the house keys, Milly scoots in; tail thumping against the bedside table. We take the elevator downstairs to give her ten minutes to wee, sniff, poo and scamper in the Dog Forest before a bowl of Migros-brand Matzingers and fresh water.
7:10am - Love Chunks hands me a coffee which helps wash down two Exedrin migraine pills that a friend smuggled to me from the US. My face slowly feels as though it is starting to unfold itself.
7:40am - We take the elevator downstairs again, but this time we’re two floors underground and walk past the eerie cement-lined bomb shelter, strangely singing overhead shower pipes and wind tunnel whistles. Milly’s ears flatten until we reach the car.
7:53am - Arrive too early for Sapphire to walk into school and goof off. I love these seven minutes. She’ll point out kids in her class, kids in her creative writing club and teachers as they pass. If I can make her laugh just as she’s closing the door and saying goodbye, I superstitiously feel it’s an omen for a good day.
8:00am - Find a parking spot right in front of the Japanese embassy. No doubt my ensemble of bed hair, cornflake eyes, dragon breath, ancient running t-shirt, trakkies and thongs aren’t seen too often in these parts.
8:30am - Milly’s now securely behind the bathroom door, whining. “Misty.... Misty......Misty...... where are you sweetie?” I’m feeding a four year old rag doll cat who lives in the apartment block next to the embassy but she’s not showing her face. Her poo, on the other hand, is on proud display in the foyer, on the bottom step of the spiral staircase, in the laundry and, finally, the kitty litter tray.....
9:00am - Back home, I bathe my arm. She managed to swipe me one after letting me think that she wanted her back stroked. Drew blood, the little bugger. Her farewell was a glimpse of her arse before it disappeared under the double bed.
10:00am - At Carrefour supermarket, five kilometres over the border in much cheaper France. Freshly showered, hair still wet and grasping a badly written shopping list. For some reason, the tune of the 1970s US sitcom Happy Days gets played at thirty second intervals which doesn’t help make the fading effects of the Exedrin any easier to take.
11:00am - Two trips from the car, through the two specially-locked garage entry doors, the swinging saloon-style elevator doors to finally arrive at our double locked front door – and back – with the groceries. It’s my own fault really. The Siege Mentality is strong within me – why buy two tins of tomatoes when you can grab four packs of three? Two measly bottles of diet coke when 24 cans are within easy reach or a litre of long life when eight are already plastic-wrapped with a convenient carry handle?
12:00 midday - The chicken breasts are marinating, cous cous is completed, the rice salad is cooling and the groceries are unpacked. Milly and I go down to the recycling bins across from our building – directly in front of the Qatar Embassy – and get rid of the cans, bottles and plastics from a week of 13th birthday celebrations. Back via the Dog Forest, where Milly gets to leave another large piece of herself and greet the Schindler’s Lifts blokes as they sit on the edge of the flower beds smoking.
1:00pm - Right. Today’s work. But not before I read my emails and see what some of my favourite bloggers are up to. Might as well eat lunch too. And a second coffee wouldn’t go astray. And the dark load is ready to be hung out. Or draped, really, on the chairs in the spare room and the IKEA clothes rack by the pantry.
2:00pm - Writing time. Honestly. I’m in the ‘final eight out of 50 applicants’ for a local copy writing job. They’ve sent me an assignment to complete by the end of the day in order to see what my brain and typing fingers can create from a make-believe micro-needling procedure that needs to be pretend-advertised. Boooooring. Somehow I find myself crouched on the floor, my eyes staring into Milly’s as I sniff her lovely soft ears and kiss the top of her head....
2:20pm - DO IT. It’ll take TEN MINUTES and then press ‘send’ and forget about it!
3:00pm - Okay, so it took fifty minutes and most of that was spent trying not to retch at the words selected and the sales techniques employed. Prostitution by keystroke; not helped by Mr Migraine bursting through again.
3:15pm - Look at yesterday’s Skype interview notes with hot Melbourne chef and his new company. Realise that, at forty three years of age I should be able to understand my own handwriting and home made abbreviations by now.
3:30pm - Click the ‘x’ in the top right hand corner of Google Chrome, Explorer, Email and Spotify. Take two more Exedrin.
4:00pm - Finish chef write up and email to him for comment.
4:05pm - Sapphire arrives home from school. Needs to use the computer for homework. From the fart at my feet, Milly's ready for a walk and I'll quickly reply to some emails. The father of the student I started tutoring yesterday is happy with his son's feedback when he got home last night. I write back in sensible language about the teaching strategies I'll be using whilst mentally hoping that he doesn't find out that the good report is probably because I gave his son diet coke, made him laugh and said 'shit' a couple of times .....
4:30pm - "Mum pleeeeease can you get off the computer now. You've had it ALL DAY." Yes but now the muse is kicking in - the website update for the Arizona blokes' restoration business is almost writing itself and the HR article for Canada is flowing, baby, flowing!
5:00pm - "OK Sapphire, it's all yours." Love Chunks is bringing two work mates home for dinner and the living room is orange with Milly's dust bunnies and Sapphire's breakfast croissant crumbs. Time for a quick vacuum, rearrangement of the wet washing and assembling of salad and more fresh raspberries to artfully scatter over the supermarket bought tart.
......11:30pm - With guests departed, table wiped down and dishwasher on, I realise that Sapphire's left the computer on. Check emails and freelance accounts one last time. Ghost writing book job is mine. Press release position is mine. CV editor, website copywriter, proof reader, online researcher, expat tutor and corporate report writer jobs aren't. Probably a good thing really; where would I find the time?
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Lovin' the Liebster Award
I feel doubly honoured because both River of Drifting Through Life and Jackie K of Working Through it have kindly passed on the Liebster award. I want to thank them both most sincerely as I enjoy reading every word of their blogs and look forward to seeing their updates when they pop up on my dashboard reader.
What's a Leibster? Google translate informs me that 'leibster' means 'favorite' and who wouldn't get a kick out of being selected as that? The idea behind this award is to pay it forward to another five blogs who have less than 200 followers and then asking those bloggers to select five others that they feel deserve recognition.
Trouble is, I've had several rounds of visitors, a lingering bout of the flu and a few (much appreciated) freelance writing gigs to complete so I'm in danger of potentially nominating bloggers who have already received the Leibster.
River wrote: "Kath's was the first blog I ever read and she was among the first few who encouraged me to start my own blog. She's funny, she's real and is currently living in Geneva.'
Jackie K said: 'So many people read and love this blog that I am surprised it still qualifies for this award. Kath writes personal and family stuff with a difference - funny and profound, illustrated with her lovely/funny photos, her posts usually have me snorting with laughter or smiling wryly in recognition, like a crazy lady at my computer. And they always make me think."
Both of those comments made me cry today.
Perhaps I should explain. I have no doubt that receiving this lovely little acknowledgement will annoy my anonymous new 'buddy' who has recently enjoyed trolling here after taking offence at a two year old article containing my opinion that tagging public and private property was NOT art, nor was it to be celebrated.
Immaturely, I decided to play the game and defend myself. Not a clever choice perhaps, but it gave me a bit of satisfaction. Ironically, for someone so incensed by my very existence, the troll showed no signs of leaving my blog and had actually gone and read more of my articles, bless 'im. Personal and obscene insults were of course his modus operandi and most of them have been deleted (no-one needs an in-depth but ill-informed discussion about my internal plumbing) but an anonymous troll avoiding his homework and official bedtime is NOT going to change my mind.
Nor do I believe that just because a vandal is longer alive their petty, ugly and frequent acts of vandalism are now required to be automatically revered and respected. Hopefully K/Clerk/s of Flemington is also remembered for more positive action than being ubiquitous with a fat felt tip. So Clerk remains a jerk.
On to the complete opposite of Poo Faced Troll Boy - deserved Leibster blogs. In no discernible order, I nominate:
Hannah at Wayfaring Chocolate - Delightfully funny, quirky, cute, clever and a whizz with peanut butter and inventive new descriptors. Recently claimed that she'd escaped the romantic clutches of a young swain but my fingers are crossed that some intellectual, happy dancing, vegan-leaning, travel lovin' wisecracker on a humungous salary earned doing good things crosses her cocoa nib-strewn path.
Jon and Jenny at Teach or Beach - Teachers and travellers with adventures, videos and advice to share. Everything from the Killing Fields to playing with tigers. Informative and beautifully photographed.
Radge at Radgery - Irish journo whose turn of phrase is delicious and dryly delightful. Local football references or specifically-Irish references may fly over my thick head, but his self-deprecating observations have me smiling in admiration and jealousy. Talented git.
Elisabeth at Sixth in line - The queen of fictional autobiography, or self-edited memoirs, or biased reminiscences or ....... just utterly beguiling, heart rending, tear-jerking, heart poundingly raw and emotive writing. So effortlessly talented and a pleasure to read.
Diane at Adventure before Dementia - The type of grey nomad and grandma I hope to be. Full of energy, compassion and interest in everything around her. A dab hand with a camera too.
Now I have to go and let these inspirational five know that they've received some Leibster lovin'.
Before that however, a final shout out to blogs often languishing but never forgotten:
Myninjacockle of The Loaded Blog
Helen at Bonding with lizards
Marie at How I learned to stop worrying and love herring
Delamere at Listen no longer in silence
Miles McClagan at One Way Suburban Conversation
Pub Man at The Man at the Pub
.... and Franzy who writes rarely but I read every. single. word.
What's a Leibster? Google translate informs me that 'leibster' means 'favorite' and who wouldn't get a kick out of being selected as that? The idea behind this award is to pay it forward to another five blogs who have less than 200 followers and then asking those bloggers to select five others that they feel deserve recognition.
Trouble is, I've had several rounds of visitors, a lingering bout of the flu and a few (much appreciated) freelance writing gigs to complete so I'm in danger of potentially nominating bloggers who have already received the Leibster.
River wrote: "Kath's was the first blog I ever read and she was among the first few who encouraged me to start my own blog. She's funny, she's real and is currently living in Geneva.'
Jackie K said: 'So many people read and love this blog that I am surprised it still qualifies for this award. Kath writes personal and family stuff with a difference - funny and profound, illustrated with her lovely/funny photos, her posts usually have me snorting with laughter or smiling wryly in recognition, like a crazy lady at my computer. And they always make me think."
Both of those comments made me cry today.
Perhaps I should explain. I have no doubt that receiving this lovely little acknowledgement will annoy my anonymous new 'buddy' who has recently enjoyed trolling here after taking offence at a two year old article containing my opinion that tagging public and private property was NOT art, nor was it to be celebrated.
Immaturely, I decided to play the game and defend myself. Not a clever choice perhaps, but it gave me a bit of satisfaction. Ironically, for someone so incensed by my very existence, the troll showed no signs of leaving my blog and had actually gone and read more of my articles, bless 'im. Personal and obscene insults were of course his modus operandi and most of them have been deleted (no-one needs an in-depth but ill-informed discussion about my internal plumbing) but an anonymous troll avoiding his homework and official bedtime is NOT going to change my mind.
Nor do I believe that just because a vandal is longer alive their petty, ugly and frequent acts of vandalism are now required to be automatically revered and respected. Hopefully K/Clerk/s of Flemington is also remembered for more positive action than being ubiquitous with a fat felt tip. So Clerk remains a jerk.
On to the complete opposite of Poo Faced Troll Boy - deserved Leibster blogs. In no discernible order, I nominate:
Hannah at Wayfaring Chocolate - Delightfully funny, quirky, cute, clever and a whizz with peanut butter and inventive new descriptors. Recently claimed that she'd escaped the romantic clutches of a young swain but my fingers are crossed that some intellectual, happy dancing, vegan-leaning, travel lovin' wisecracker on a humungous salary earned doing good things crosses her cocoa nib-strewn path.
Jon and Jenny at Teach or Beach - Teachers and travellers with adventures, videos and advice to share. Everything from the Killing Fields to playing with tigers. Informative and beautifully photographed.
Radge at Radgery - Irish journo whose turn of phrase is delicious and dryly delightful. Local football references or specifically-Irish references may fly over my thick head, but his self-deprecating observations have me smiling in admiration and jealousy. Talented git.
Elisabeth at Sixth in line - The queen of fictional autobiography, or self-edited memoirs, or biased reminiscences or ....... just utterly beguiling, heart rending, tear-jerking, heart poundingly raw and emotive writing. So effortlessly talented and a pleasure to read.
Diane at Adventure before Dementia - The type of grey nomad and grandma I hope to be. Full of energy, compassion and interest in everything around her. A dab hand with a camera too.
Now I have to go and let these inspirational five know that they've received some Leibster lovin'.
Before that however, a final shout out to blogs often languishing but never forgotten:
Myninjacockle of The Loaded Blog
Helen at Bonding with lizards
Marie at How I learned to stop worrying and love herring
Delamere at Listen no longer in silence
Miles McClagan at One Way Suburban Conversation
Pub Man at The Man at the Pub
.... and Franzy who writes rarely but I read every. single. word.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Meeting the Plastic Mancunian
I've been reading the Plastic Mancunian for a while now. He likes to claim that he's a miserable old git who, if not trying to convince us all that heavy metal has musical qualities we should all investigate, is prone to ranting about the dire quality of British television but there's a big beating heart under all that.
He's fond of a meme and even fonder of Mrs PM, his sons and their three crazy cats and has made me inhale my meusli in amusement more than once.
And the other day he was being sent on an urgent work mission to Geneva. 'Well, we've GOT to meet up,' I insisted, not respecting his schedule or personal wishes.
So we did:
He's as funny and clever and engaging as his blog and if he's in town next time we'll have him over for dinner (cooked by Love Chunks, of course. Mine would just scare him away).
This brought to mind some recent comments by Andrew, of High Riser fame, who was worried about meeting up with another blogger. "He is edjacated, artistic, a high achiever, a professional and young," he fretted. I hoiked my considerably chunky thighs over my lofty and smug high horse and wrote, "GO FOR IT and MEET HIM. I met the Plastic Mancunian a couple of days before Christmas and am very glad I did. I ain't single or young or gorgeous, but it's amazing what friendships and connections are made via our blogs. If he reads your blog, he already knows a lot about you and how you think, so please don't be worried."
Over hot chocolate (moi) and beer (PM), we revealed the true names of the people we love and write about but there was one question I didn't ask. I briefly agonised over it, but decided to leave it.
That night, lying in bed with Love Chunks, I broached the issue. "LC you know that you're my Main Squeeze and I'll adore you forever and ever and all that, but would it have been wrong to ask Plastic Mancunian what after-shave he had on because he smelt gorgeous!"
LC's answer was kind of muffled, but the odd word emerged. Odd ball, Inappropriate and Stalker were the ones that were audible.
I've also met the terrific and prolific Baino and would gladly offer her a spot in our spare room should she ever find her way to Geneva. She's gutsy, honest, hilarious and would have to be a contender for the hottest and best mother in the world.
River was someone I'd seen many times at my local shopping centre before finally 'clicking' and working out who she was. Her bravery and ability to see the best in life is an inspiration to me and recent tough circumstances have seen her blossom. Franzy is another. I found his blog after laughing at a witty remark he'd made in a 'reply all' email sent from a mutual friend. He's sharper than a razor blade and a justifiably proud new Dad whose not afraid to give me honest feedback if my writing seems too slack for his standards.
Pandora was another find - a blast from the past who hid herself for a while, patiently waiting for my plodding grey matter to fire up, put the pieces together and make the identification. I'm bloody glad I did - we had a lot of ground to cover, including explanations and lessons learned. She's run half-marathons, travelled the world and somehow combines Beer Club on one hand and the slightly more intellectual Book Club on the other.
Other bloggers have become friends online or via facebook too and for those I haven't yet met, I also consider them friends, comrades and (very often) wise and comforting sages.
Never underestimate the positive power of contributing a comment. Or advice.
River was someone I'd seen many times at my local shopping centre before finally 'clicking' and working out who she was. Her bravery and ability to see the best in life is an inspiration to me and recent tough circumstances have seen her blossom. Franzy is another. I found his blog after laughing at a witty remark he'd made in a 'reply all' email sent from a mutual friend. He's sharper than a razor blade and a justifiably proud new Dad whose not afraid to give me honest feedback if my writing seems too slack for his standards.
Pandora was another find - a blast from the past who hid herself for a while, patiently waiting for my plodding grey matter to fire up, put the pieces together and make the identification. I'm bloody glad I did - we had a lot of ground to cover, including explanations and lessons learned. She's run half-marathons, travelled the world and somehow combines Beer Club on one hand and the slightly more intellectual Book Club on the other.
Other bloggers have become friends online or via facebook too and for those I haven't yet met, I also consider them friends, comrades and (very often) wise and comforting sages.
Never underestimate the positive power of contributing a comment. Or advice.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Pretend that You....
Lea from Health With Happiness has young children who love to play. Bung in some dress-up opportunities and they're like pigs in mud with the sessions invariably kicking off with the timeless phrase 'Pretend that you...'
It got me wondering what it would be like for adults to play that game. Steady on - in a non-sexual context. What would you answer to 'Pretend that you...?'
Here's a few of mine:
Slapped Tony Abbott in the face. Repeatedly, using Andrew Bolt as the weapon.
Could wear high heels without pain.
Had pets that never shed hair or, at the very least, could operate and regularly use the vacuum cleaner.
Fell asleep the second my head hit the pillow instead of three long and sweaty, fretful and restless hours later with two sessions groping around in the dark for wee trips at 3am and 5am.
Owned taps that weren't flick mixers and therefore didn't burst open and splash in and out of the cup at supersonic speed, leaving my face and shirtfront completely soaked.
Didn't need to fart the second I sit down with someone trying to interview them for an article and seem professional and in control (of persona and gas emittance).
Ate my entire body weight in chocolate and saw it reduce my fat ratio, increase my stamina and improve my intelligence levels.
Could instantly (and without ruining the environment) 'zap' and make disappear every single item of litter I laid my eyes on. Same goes for so-called 'celebrity' columnists and radio hosts.
Had visible eyebrows and lashes longer than a chicken's.
Spent the day in Parliament as the ultimate dictator removing HECS, restrictions on who can marry; bank fees other than interest, payments to private schools, stamp duty and ridiculously high retirement pensions for politicians.
Found jeans that fit me around the thighs and the waist.
Owned dishes that put themselves in and out of the dishwasher and clothes that knew how to wash, dry, iron, fold and return to the drawers and wardrobes. Had a best-selling and also critically-acclaimed novel published.
Actually wrote a novel.
Waved a wand (the fantasy equivalent of a legally-bound restraining order) and removed Sapphire's bully. And the bully's mother.
Figured out how to resolve an argument with Sapphire without first fighting the competing demons of rage, shame, humiliation and sorrow - all tightly woven in love, pride and concern.
Worked out how to let things roll off my back and not coil right through to the marrow.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Ends. Candle. Burning.
After resigning from a misery-making job before Christmas, I was left wondering just what in the hell kind of work would suit me and if we'd be able to do much more than pay for food and shelter and keep the old car running.
The third job is home-based and childless but the subjects that have been mine to write about have increased in scope and interest this year. Who wouldn't want to find out why an engineer has become a children's clown who spends more on make up than his wife? Or an Iceland-based sheep farmer who is doing ground breaking chemical research in Australia?
After resigning from a misery-making job before Christmas, I was left wondering just what in the hell kind of work would suit me and if we'd be able to do much more than pay for food and shelter and keep the old car running.
Three months later I find that The Fledgling Novel has not been touched since January. This might not be a bad thing. At least, that's what I'm telling myself. I managed to crap out 27,000 words in January and got some valuable feedback from two trusted sources that both offered very similar and very useful advice.
The amendments and refocus are still simmering away in the back of my mind but I'm working part-time now.
It may seem as though I have the luxury to pay a few bills and write The Foolhardy Novel but it's actually three part-time jobs. Two involve writing (and payment) and one involves childcare. I'm discovering that I enjoy all three equally, with skills and observations gained in one easily transferable to another. Tantrums and tiredness are constants in all three.
Job Number One is on a sorta trial basis until 30th June. Extension beyond that is reliant on a new round of government budget planning and whether they like my work. I've signed a contract of confidentiality so like the dentist who brushes his teeth on the old Oral B adverts, I can't show my face (or reveal my employer) on television (this blog).
Some of the writing involved is mundane but most of it is uber-current, frequently thrilling and needs a bit of investigation and consideration. My alarm starts pinging and it leaves me wondering where the past seven hours have gone. Not for long though as the second job starts - after school care for a seven year old, A; who has added a surprisingly happy spring into Sapphire's steps.
And mine. We no longer fling our bog rolls and cereal boxes straight into the recycling; they're saved for the days we have A and are usually cut up, drawn on, painted and liberally covered with sticky tape. Scrap paper is always sitting in a ready pile, along with permanent markers, pencils, magazines, string and wool. When snacks are consumed and they need a break from sedentary activities, both the eleven year old and the seven year old grab their scooters. I click Milly the dog's lead onto her collar and we all head out to the nearest school: a heavenly slab of scooter-friendly asphalt and concrete.
The third job is home-based and childless but the subjects that have been mine to write about have increased in scope and interest this year. Who wouldn't want to find out why an engineer has become a children's clown who spends more on make up than his wife? Or an Iceland-based sheep farmer who is doing ground breaking chemical research in Australia?
Around this we coordinate Sapphire's home work, music lessons, running, general housework, GoneChocco reviews, socialising, litter ninja duties and running the tennis practice session and game days. The 'effin Novel is transferred to a data stick and taken from job to job in the unrealistic hope that there might be a snatch of time to have a review. When I last looked, the USB had a stray tic-tac stuck to it as it lay nestled and forgotten at the bottom of my backpack amongst the pens, plastic bags and umbrella cover.
I'm spending more time on the 59 tram, the phone and with a notebook in my hand. Sapphire woke up the other morning and said, "Oh today is when A comes over, isn't it? They're my favourite days. I can have fun and be myself and not worry about anything."
Eight hours and two jobs later, Sapphire and A are at the outdoor table, papers, paints and pens covering most of the surface. Skipper the rabbit sniffs and hops around them, seemingly interested at the cardboard 'cubby house' they've made for his enjoyment. He cheekily hops over and takes a sip out of my glass of water as Milly nudges my thigh to remind me that she's still my number one animal and needs her ears scratched.
A's head is bowed over her paper in concentration. "This is soooo awesome!" she exclaims to herself.
Yes, it is.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Tendo Calcaneus
Some people use their bank balance, number of facebook friends or even kilograms lost to measure their success. I use my achilles tendon.
Apart from a propensity to insert Milly the dog's name into popular songs and loudly sing them back to her or to count things in threes, it has been this rather small but essential muscle on the back of my lower right leg that has been the weathervane reflecting my internal life.
During the miserable five weeks working at Melbourne Uni (yes, I said it!), my Achilles had twanged itself for the second time. Two rounds of six weeks' rest from running with only the miserable 3km walk home in heavy traffic, careless right-turn drivers and off-road cyclists (how wide am I? I'm already on the far left side of the path, don't you think you can squeeze past me without trilling your stupid bell in warning?) and my mood was as injured as my leg.
A week after quitting the job and wondering just what the hell kind of conversation I was going to make with my family at Christmas time - 'Yeah, I'm a quitter; how's your career going?' 'No, I don't have any form of income at the moment; let's look at your renovation' - I realised that six weeks had passed again.
This time I was careful. A three kilometre power walk to the bluff, touching the parking sign pole as the official end of the course and running it back. Difficult but do-able with the Achilles whingeing slightly but not progressing to screaming or snapping.
A days' rest and then the walk-three, run-three trial again. Even better. I find myself participating more in dinner table conversations, more willing to make or take a joke. Hell, did Mum just spring me singing to Milly outside by the rainwater tank?
The walk-three, run-three technique is repeated another five times over the next week before battling the locust plagues and the wheezy laughter of Kerry O'Keefe during the ABC cricket broadcast as we drive the long trek back across the border to home.
Sapphire and I are eating lunch together. Her head is lowered and her eyes are brimming. After several gentle questions, the tear drops fall down her shirt and she says that someone called her fat. It doesn't matter who, it was said, so they obviously think so. Is it true?
No.
NO.
But I too was called fat by my brothers. Fatty Arbuckle actually. In retrospect it sounded catchy and none of us knew that he was a silent film star whose career was ruined after being found guilty of raping and killing a starlet. The intention was merely to silence and hurt me and boy, did it work. I cried so many times with self pity and loathing and now when I see photographs of myself it is a normal-sized girl standing in the garden and two very skinny brothers who teased without any genuine malice.
I turn to my girl - also normal-sized - and know that just telling her that she's a great person and is fine won't work. She wants a solution, a project. "But hey, I keep reading that being fit - you know, all that cardio vascular stuff - can help with asthma and breathing and give you more energy. As you know I'm slowly getting back into my running again. Do you want to do some of that with me?"
Expecting her to quickly say 'no thanks' I was surprised when she agreed.
And so, for the past week, she's been out in the shed with me. The music is her choice - lots of Katy Perry, Lady Gaga and Taylor Swift; the pedestal fan is directed towards her red face that doesn't yet sweat as easily as mine and I crack weak jokes about being her personal trainer, singing along in a falsetto voice to any of the songs I know and getting a rather big squeeze to the heart when I see her smile.
She ran 2.8 kilometres today. I was very proud of her and told her that she should be too."Yeah but you ran four, Mum."
"Maybe, but I've been doing it for over ten years and am a bit older and stronger than you. You're eleven and have decided to give this a red-hot go and are succeeding." It's now my eyes that are brimming.
Sapphire skips inside to tell LC who is busy making coffee and setting up my laptop in the kitchen. Yes, it's my original one, with the K, N, I, H and L keys that stick, the internet speed of a sea slug on valium and no bells or whistles. It suits me and allows me to stop hiding out in the hot study and instead sit at the table being part of the whatever LC and Sapphire are doing.
Now that they've set off to see Tron ("I'm sure it's going to be OK because Dad and I have the same taste but I don't believe that everyone's going to be wearing the same jumpsuit type of outfit in the future like every sci-fi movie seems to think"), I've showered, breakfasted and working on four chapters of the fledgling novel at once.
My Achilles is throbbing slightly but only to let me know that it's been tested.
Some people use their bank balance, number of facebook friends or even kilograms lost to measure their success. I use my achilles tendon.
Apart from a propensity to insert Milly the dog's name into popular songs and loudly sing them back to her or to count things in threes, it has been this rather small but essential muscle on the back of my lower right leg that has been the weathervane reflecting my internal life.
During the miserable five weeks working at Melbourne Uni (yes, I said it!), my Achilles had twanged itself for the second time. Two rounds of six weeks' rest from running with only the miserable 3km walk home in heavy traffic, careless right-turn drivers and off-road cyclists (how wide am I? I'm already on the far left side of the path, don't you think you can squeeze past me without trilling your stupid bell in warning?) and my mood was as injured as my leg.
A week after quitting the job and wondering just what the hell kind of conversation I was going to make with my family at Christmas time - 'Yeah, I'm a quitter; how's your career going?' 'No, I don't have any form of income at the moment; let's look at your renovation' - I realised that six weeks had passed again.
This time I was careful. A three kilometre power walk to the bluff, touching the parking sign pole as the official end of the course and running it back. Difficult but do-able with the Achilles whingeing slightly but not progressing to screaming or snapping.
A days' rest and then the walk-three, run-three trial again. Even better. I find myself participating more in dinner table conversations, more willing to make or take a joke. Hell, did Mum just spring me singing to Milly outside by the rainwater tank?
The walk-three, run-three technique is repeated another five times over the next week before battling the locust plagues and the wheezy laughter of Kerry O'Keefe during the ABC cricket broadcast as we drive the long trek back across the border to home.
Sapphire and I are eating lunch together. Her head is lowered and her eyes are brimming. After several gentle questions, the tear drops fall down her shirt and she says that someone called her fat. It doesn't matter who, it was said, so they obviously think so. Is it true?
No.
NO.
But I too was called fat by my brothers. Fatty Arbuckle actually. In retrospect it sounded catchy and none of us knew that he was a silent film star whose career was ruined after being found guilty of raping and killing a starlet. The intention was merely to silence and hurt me and boy, did it work. I cried so many times with self pity and loathing and now when I see photographs of myself it is a normal-sized girl standing in the garden and two very skinny brothers who teased without any genuine malice.
I turn to my girl - also normal-sized - and know that just telling her that she's a great person and is fine won't work. She wants a solution, a project. "But hey, I keep reading that being fit - you know, all that cardio vascular stuff - can help with asthma and breathing and give you more energy. As you know I'm slowly getting back into my running again. Do you want to do some of that with me?"
Expecting her to quickly say 'no thanks' I was surprised when she agreed.
And so, for the past week, she's been out in the shed with me. The music is her choice - lots of Katy Perry, Lady Gaga and Taylor Swift; the pedestal fan is directed towards her red face that doesn't yet sweat as easily as mine and I crack weak jokes about being her personal trainer, singing along in a falsetto voice to any of the songs I know and getting a rather big squeeze to the heart when I see her smile.
She ran 2.8 kilometres today. I was very proud of her and told her that she should be too."Yeah but you ran four, Mum."
"Maybe, but I've been doing it for over ten years and am a bit older and stronger than you. You're eleven and have decided to give this a red-hot go and are succeeding." It's now my eyes that are brimming.
Sapphire skips inside to tell LC who is busy making coffee and setting up my laptop in the kitchen. Yes, it's my original one, with the K, N, I, H and L keys that stick, the internet speed of a sea slug on valium and no bells or whistles. It suits me and allows me to stop hiding out in the hot study and instead sit at the table being part of the whatever LC and Sapphire are doing.
Now that they've set off to see Tron ("I'm sure it's going to be OK because Dad and I have the same taste but I don't believe that everyone's going to be wearing the same jumpsuit type of outfit in the future like every sci-fi movie seems to think"), I've showered, breakfasted and working on four chapters of the fledgling novel at once.
My Achilles is throbbing slightly but only to let me know that it's been tested.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Upping Stumps
I quit my job after only five weeks and realise that the past five years haven't been exactly stellar regarding the formal work front.
Five years ago I worked myself into a nervous breakdown;
Three years ago my boss pushed me out;
Last week I resigned.
A breakdown after five years; a firing after two years and a giving-up after five weeks.
What's the next one going to be - going postal after ten minutes?
I don't think so.
After a weekend of crying, I'm trying hard not to see it as a failure but as something I tried that wasn't the right fit; wondering why just getting basic and necessary tasks done needed to be so difficult; why people were tardy, grumpy, hidden from view. Skewing things out of proportion and making me feel miserable, useless and trapped.
Except I wasn't. Trapped, that is.
We all have to suffer rudeness and dishonesty and disinterest at times but I grew tired of hearing, "Yeah they've had a bad year, so aren't likely to be helpful" as something I had to accept. Hearing, "You don't belong to our unit, go somewhere else" when they were the sole owners of the information/room/activity/knowledge and therefore had the power.
So I decided not to put up with it.
Money will be tight - freelancing work starts with 'free' for a reason a lot of the time but I've learned something. I am still employable. I just don't need to say 'yes' to the first thing that's offered, especially when most of the requirements I was looking for in a job weren't there. I can be fussy even if it means that our financial situation will need a much more careful eye.
I need to value the work that I do with and for my family as much as they do and stop worrying about what other people think. I need to get off my arse - or firmly back on it, seeing as it's mostly computer based - and start writing the damn novel that's been percolating, bubbling, brewing in my brain all year.
2011 - Year of change; year of being brave.
I quit my job after only five weeks and realise that the past five years haven't been exactly stellar regarding the formal work front.
Five years ago I worked myself into a nervous breakdown;
Three years ago my boss pushed me out;
Last week I resigned.
A breakdown after five years; a firing after two years and a giving-up after five weeks.
What's the next one going to be - going postal after ten minutes?
I don't think so.
After a weekend of crying, I'm trying hard not to see it as a failure but as something I tried that wasn't the right fit; wondering why just getting basic and necessary tasks done needed to be so difficult; why people were tardy, grumpy, hidden from view. Skewing things out of proportion and making me feel miserable, useless and trapped.
Except I wasn't. Trapped, that is.
We all have to suffer rudeness and dishonesty and disinterest at times but I grew tired of hearing, "Yeah they've had a bad year, so aren't likely to be helpful" as something I had to accept. Hearing, "You don't belong to our unit, go somewhere else" when they were the sole owners of the information/room/activity/knowledge and therefore had the power.
So I decided not to put up with it.
Money will be tight - freelancing work starts with 'free' for a reason a lot of the time but I've learned something. I am still employable. I just don't need to say 'yes' to the first thing that's offered, especially when most of the requirements I was looking for in a job weren't there. I can be fussy even if it means that our financial situation will need a much more careful eye.
I need to value the work that I do with and for my family as much as they do and stop worrying about what other people think. I need to get off my arse - or firmly back on it, seeing as it's mostly computer based - and start writing the damn novel that's been percolating, bubbling, brewing in my brain all year.
2011 - Year of change; year of being brave.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Snappy September - Day Thirteen - Tears
With the work I had scheduled with my most favouritest newspaper suddenly slashed to a quarter due to budget cuts it means that the three articles already researched, interviewed people for (whilst seeking permission from their respective media units, boss or publicity department), written and submitted won't be published and I won't be paid. Isn't it nice to know that a huge international media organisation had saved roughly a weeks' salary equivalent to a junior bank clerk thanks to me, marvellous me?
I spent last week in a bit of a panic about it. No, my income was half a sheet of loo paper compared to Love Chunk's sixteen squares neatly folded and ready to deal with diarrhoea but it sure as hell helped and with scheduled articles it was easy to predict when my 'salary' (if you can call it that as a freelancer) would arrive. Not any more.
My writing income would cover our weekly grocery shop and maybe Sapphire's viola and tennis lessons, but it made me feel as though I could justify saying - out loud, to other people - that I was a writer and that yes, my public embracing of the polar fleece and scruffy jeans was just part of who I was - a 'writer'.
It was time to get onto Seek and look for some jobs. One appeared as though it was designed just for me. Part time writer of press releases, website information and newsletter for a dog shelter one suburb away. Preferable to have knowledge of blogging and a genuine love of dogs. Hello.....? Blew the dust off my CV, wrote a killer cover letter and sent it off.
Got rejected (via email which was automatically sent to the spam folder) within twenty four hours.
Ah well, life goes on, keep my not-inconsiderably-sized chin up, see what else is out there..... Decided to do their online test that asked many in-depth questions about qualifications, years of employment, industry sectors worked in, skills gained, on-the-job training opportunities, key achievements etc. Made a coffee as the magic box ticked over and said, 'Your suggested jobs will be coming soon.'
And there it was - data entry. Data pharking entry. What?
There's no cancer ravaging my body; our home is warm and safe and my husband, daughter and dog always seem happy to see me, yet I spent the day sobbing and trying very hard not to slide down towards the self flagellation I'm known for.
What value do I really add to this family?
My inability to do a 'real' job without being burned or burned out means that LC is trapped into working hard all the time, with no freedom or options. Shouldn't I be putting my energies towards something other than looking after my own needs first?
What about Sapphire? What kind of role model am I, when I can't even hack a 'real' job and aren't making much headway with such a namby-pamby form of work?
Dad rang me with a query. "Um Kath, there's this big basket of flowers - well, they're not flowers, but chocolates wrapped up to look like a bunch of flowers, so I think some chocolate company has made a mistake and they should be sent to you. They're pretty fancy, so I see that you're hitting the big time there, aren't you kiddo?"
"No Dad, they're for you."
"Why?"
"Because you never let me get you anything for Fathers' Day and I wanted - just for once - to give you something pretty - it should be in Crows' colours - is it Dad? - that would say that you've been a wonderful father to me and I love you."
....."Dad? Are you there, Dad?"
He was. And apart from the two times he found me in hospital, broken and hopeless, I heard him cry. And it made me smile and gave me more than just a little dollop of strength.
With the work I had scheduled with my most favouritest newspaper suddenly slashed to a quarter due to budget cuts it means that the three articles already researched, interviewed people for (whilst seeking permission from their respective media units, boss or publicity department), written and submitted won't be published and I won't be paid. Isn't it nice to know that a huge international media organisation had saved roughly a weeks' salary equivalent to a junior bank clerk thanks to me, marvellous me?
I spent last week in a bit of a panic about it. No, my income was half a sheet of loo paper compared to Love Chunk's sixteen squares neatly folded and ready to deal with diarrhoea but it sure as hell helped and with scheduled articles it was easy to predict when my 'salary' (if you can call it that as a freelancer) would arrive. Not any more.
My writing income would cover our weekly grocery shop and maybe Sapphire's viola and tennis lessons, but it made me feel as though I could justify saying - out loud, to other people - that I was a writer and that yes, my public embracing of the polar fleece and scruffy jeans was just part of who I was - a 'writer'.
It was time to get onto Seek and look for some jobs. One appeared as though it was designed just for me. Part time writer of press releases, website information and newsletter for a dog shelter one suburb away. Preferable to have knowledge of blogging and a genuine love of dogs. Hello.....? Blew the dust off my CV, wrote a killer cover letter and sent it off.
Got rejected (via email which was automatically sent to the spam folder) within twenty four hours.
Ah well, life goes on, keep my not-inconsiderably-sized chin up, see what else is out there..... Decided to do their online test that asked many in-depth questions about qualifications, years of employment, industry sectors worked in, skills gained, on-the-job training opportunities, key achievements etc. Made a coffee as the magic box ticked over and said, 'Your suggested jobs will be coming soon.'
And there it was - data entry. Data pharking entry. What?
There's no cancer ravaging my body; our home is warm and safe and my husband, daughter and dog always seem happy to see me, yet I spent the day sobbing and trying very hard not to slide down towards the self flagellation I'm known for.
What value do I really add to this family?
My inability to do a 'real' job without being burned or burned out means that LC is trapped into working hard all the time, with no freedom or options. Shouldn't I be putting my energies towards something other than looking after my own needs first?
What about Sapphire? What kind of role model am I, when I can't even hack a 'real' job and aren't making much headway with such a namby-pamby form of work?
Dad rang me with a query. "Um Kath, there's this big basket of flowers - well, they're not flowers, but chocolates wrapped up to look like a bunch of flowers, so I think some chocolate company has made a mistake and they should be sent to you. They're pretty fancy, so I see that you're hitting the big time there, aren't you kiddo?"
"No Dad, they're for you."
"Why?"
"Because you never let me get you anything for Fathers' Day and I wanted - just for once - to give you something pretty - it should be in Crows' colours - is it Dad? - that would say that you've been a wonderful father to me and I love you."
....."Dad? Are you there, Dad?"
He was. And apart from the two times he found me in hospital, broken and hopeless, I heard him cry. And it made me smile and gave me more than just a little dollop of strength.
Friday, September 03, 2010
Snappy September - Day Three - Baino's meme
Before the end of the Boer War (or twelve months ago in the blogosphere), Baino sent me four words to write about. Snappy September's now in full swing, so why not bung in a few of my photos and get my blog on?
TOFU (because I'm betting you hate it and can really get your teeth into that one)
Well, dear Baino, you might be surprised to discover that I don't hate tofu. Sure, I don't buy it as part of my regular grocery shop but do occasionally order it when I feel like an Asian-dish that's packed with more veges than meat. Fried tofu is best because it gives it a toast-and-egg flavour and coating but the steamed silken stuff is okay too.
The key word here is 'okay'. Not my favourite, but not disliked either; 'tofu' to me is the flat vinyl beanbag of the healthy(ish) food world -I could quite happily live without it, but might choose if it it's right under my nose.
THONGS (you can go either way on this one)
Thongs, for me, will always belong to my feet and never my arse crack. I only once gave the undies a go and lasted about ten minutes before the thought of having white cotton and spandex rubbing right up against the least hygienic part of my body - let alone the feeling of willingly paying $12 for a permanent wedgie - was about as much fun as undergoing a PAP smear on YouTube. Seeing the visual evidence of G-strings walking in front of me - the jiggling buttocks under work trousers wobbling like nervous blancmanges down Collins Street - was enough of a turn off as I didn't need an amused audience behind me as I passed by either.
Tess, our first dog, loved thongs so much that LC and I ended up buying the $1.79 rubber pairs as a regular Woolworth's item long before they were back in vogue for people to wear. She'd wedge her furry face under the straps towards the peg bit that secured the big toe. Then she'd frantically flap her ears so that the sole of the thong would go 'Whappity Whappity Whappity WHAP' on the side of her head, thus starting the fight. She'd then try to shake off the marauding footwear and bite it back, which only caused it to slap her a few more times which gave her another excuse to bite and wriggle back as it slapped her snout again and again...... Many pairs of thongs were ruined this way, but it was more fun and value than wearing any of them.
HEAVEN (because I don't know what you think about that)
Neither do I, if I'm honest. I come from a 'churchy' family, but elected to sleep-in as soon as I was permitted to make the decision myself. Since then, any church attendances have been out of sentimental reasons (it's Christmas time, we're at my parents' place and Mum is singing in the choir), weddings or funerals.
I know that 'God' is just a word, but I believe, somehow, that there is a God of some kind. Despite picking at my nails until they bleed and suffering all-too-regular bouts of insomnia, I've never spent much time pondering the meaning of life, the point to our existence or what is beyond the Milky Way. Something far bigger and cleverer and stronger than me has made all sorts of things that my brain doesn't have a hope of comprehending. All I can do is try to be a decent person. I think.
And if reincarnation is true - and my own philosophical and spiritual jury is still out on this issue - I'd love to return to this planet as a much-loved and well cared-for family dog.
Before the end of the Boer War (or twelve months ago in the blogosphere), Baino sent me four words to write about. Snappy September's now in full swing, so why not bung in a few of my photos and get my blog on?
TOFU (because I'm betting you hate it and can really get your teeth into that one)
Well, dear Baino, you might be surprised to discover that I don't hate tofu. Sure, I don't buy it as part of my regular grocery shop but do occasionally order it when I feel like an Asian-dish that's packed with more veges than meat. Fried tofu is best because it gives it a toast-and-egg flavour and coating but the steamed silken stuff is okay too.
The key word here is 'okay'. Not my favourite, but not disliked either; 'tofu' to me is the flat vinyl beanbag of the healthy(ish) food world -I could quite happily live without it, but might choose if it it's right under my nose.
THONGS (you can go either way on this one)
Thongs, for me, will always belong to my feet and never my arse crack. I only once gave the undies a go and lasted about ten minutes before the thought of having white cotton and spandex rubbing right up against the least hygienic part of my body - let alone the feeling of willingly paying $12 for a permanent wedgie - was about as much fun as undergoing a PAP smear on YouTube. Seeing the visual evidence of G-strings walking in front of me - the jiggling buttocks under work trousers wobbling like nervous blancmanges down Collins Street - was enough of a turn off as I didn't need an amused audience behind me as I passed by either.
Tess, our first dog, loved thongs so much that LC and I ended up buying the $1.79 rubber pairs as a regular Woolworth's item long before they were back in vogue for people to wear. She'd wedge her furry face under the straps towards the peg bit that secured the big toe. Then she'd frantically flap her ears so that the sole of the thong would go 'Whappity Whappity Whappity WHAP' on the side of her head, thus starting the fight. She'd then try to shake off the marauding footwear and bite it back, which only caused it to slap her a few more times which gave her another excuse to bite and wriggle back as it slapped her snout again and again...... Many pairs of thongs were ruined this way, but it was more fun and value than wearing any of them.
HEAVEN (because I don't know what you think about that)
Neither do I, if I'm honest. I come from a 'churchy' family, but elected to sleep-in as soon as I was permitted to make the decision myself. Since then, any church attendances have been out of sentimental reasons (it's Christmas time, we're at my parents' place and Mum is singing in the choir), weddings or funerals.
I know that 'God' is just a word, but I believe, somehow, that there is a God of some kind. Despite picking at my nails until they bleed and suffering all-too-regular bouts of insomnia, I've never spent much time pondering the meaning of life, the point to our existence or what is beyond the Milky Way. Something far bigger and cleverer and stronger than me has made all sorts of things that my brain doesn't have a hope of comprehending. All I can do is try to be a decent person. I think.
And if reincarnation is true - and my own philosophical and spiritual jury is still out on this issue - I'd love to return to this planet as a much-loved and well cared-for family dog.
Heaven, therefore, in my own small way, is experienced every day through the things I see, touch, hear and taste. The coffee made by Love Chunks; the feel of Milly's furry ears, my first dazzling view of Sapphire each morning, the taste of chocolate and knowing that every single person I interact with has a story that will fascinate me. A neckrub is pretty close to heaven too.
AMBITION (Because you're driven but still manage the work life balance - he-he free tips without buying the book)
Hmmm, this is a tough one to summarise. I was ambitious once, up until about five years ago when my body, mind and soul decided to simultaneously pull the blinds down so that it forced me to rest, reduce my ridiculous working hours and decide if having a fancy office, a meaningless-but-important-sounding job title and a big salary was worth losing six teeth, possessing a gnawing gut, painfully excreting rabbit droppings at 3am and then explosive diarrhoea five minutes before a presentation was my idea of a successful life.
It wasn't. Nor was having Sapphire in childcare - and later, before and after-school care full time; crying for no apparent reason on the weekends; feeling permanently resentful/grumpy/exhausted and jealous; hiding out in the work toilets or finding myself at the desk, having done an hour of work when my boss would ring - from the sanctity of his breakfast table in Glenelg with the opening line, "I knew you'd be there already."
Writing a book, surviving the aftermath of Bulldog's ego and cruelty to work from home as a writer and researcher and chocolate reviewer has been the best thing I've done for my so-called 'career path'. I earn a fifth of what I earned five years ago and am extremely lucky to have the luxury of knowing that Love Chunks earns enough to see us through. He supports my work (and the diversions) and has pointed out more than once that I'm a healthier and happier person.
So 'ambition' for me is about trying to contribute to my family on my terms, but acknowledging that it can't be done without the support and understanding of Love Chunks and Sapphire. And for that I'll be grateful to them for the rest of my life.
Friday, August 06, 2010
In the dumps
It’s been raining every night after school this week or we’ve been out and about and it’s been too dark to do any Litter Ninja-ing of any sort, save for the odd can or Red Rooster bag I pick up as I’m passing by.
That said, there was one bit of litter that I did see – and smell – and passed by several times, stewing inside.
The street we live on backs onto the local high school and there’s tiny little grassy strip that cuts it in half to stop people from speeding and to confuse furniture and pizza delivery men. Two very unenthusiastic bottle brush trees live there, suffering from the regular clouds of cigarette smoke or from being leaned against during marathon snogging sessions from teenagers.
That’s just during the week. On the weekends, the trees are subject to having beer bottles smashed against their apathetic stabilising poles and a bit of illiterate scratching on their trunks and my tongs are used to gingerly pick up the scarier pieces of glass so that the kids can continue their Monday-to-Friday smoke-and-grope sessions in relative safety.
This time, the Loser Boozers had left an offering of a different kind; one that was much harder to pick up despite its size.
In fact it was so grand in stature that locals had begun to talk about it amongst themselves. Amy hurried young Patrick along, saying, “I don’t want him to get too close a look at it, but how can you not? Who on earth is capable of making such a thing?”
The thing was a human turd. Or big, brown, moist pyramid of excrement, oh-so-discreetly ‘covered’ with two men’s handkerchiefs, presumably used as wipes beforehand. This thing was so large it even threatened to overtake the community’s collective disgust and replace it with concern for the health of the person who laid such an awful egg. Had they survived? Were they able to walk again? Had the A&E Department been notified?
It was located in my designated Litter Ninja zone.
For three days I stewed, knowing that I could not ignore it and hope that it would go away. It was so immense that a village on its southern slopes had all but perished during a mud slide and Bert Newton was hosting a telethon on the northern side.
Our suburb is a peculiar mix of bogans, barristers and everything in between and frequently comes alive to the sound of renovations. Skip bins in Melbourne are everywhere and it appears to be an unspoken inevitability that the darkness brings out people from neighbouring weatherboard cottages, holding enormous IKEA boxes, busted microwaves, three-legged outdoor chairs and the traditional stained mattress.
Maybe I should contact some waste management expert to help me – their skips were already starting to mate and increase in number around my ‘hood like the urban equivalent of rabbits.....
......A couple of days later there other things on my mind besides the Chocolate Cheops four houses up. My editor hated the last article I submitted and actually said the words ‘big stick’ and ‘waste of my time’. My cholesterol level is now 7.4 (up from 6.5 the same time last year) and despite my regular runs I can no longer fit comfortably into the size 12 dress I was planning on wearing to a posh event later in the week and my little brother ended up in hospital.
Grabbing five shopping bags I strode up the street, whipping out some junk mail from Mr Divvy Van’s letterbox as I went. The papers sorta kinda covered the man mountain and the bags were used like big doggy doo gloves. Several layers later, the fifth bag was tied up and thrown into a nearby skip, with a nervous hope that the old sheet of corrugated iron that it landed on wasn’t going to pierce it....
After several OCD hand washes, I decided to phone Monash Uni’s neurological research unit as my sister-in-law had suggested. They were looking for people who suffered from regular migraines and depression to see if they could find a chemical as well as psychological link.
Would I be prepared to undertake a phone survey first, to determine if I’m a suitable candidate? Absolutely. Migraine symptoms, duration and frequency = definitely suitable.
Depression? Let me get back to you. Can I call you back, say later this afternoon after I’ve properly analysed the results and had a chat to my supervisor? Of course, knock yourself out. What do I care – I just hammer threw a two kilogram bag of poo into a skip!
Ring ring, ring ring, 3pm.
“Hi Kath, it’s Rebecca. We’ve had a look at your results and..... I’m really sorry, but you’re not suitable to participate our study.”
“How come?”
“Well.....,” she trailed off... “.....you’re too happy.”
And you know what? She’s right.
It’s been raining every night after school this week or we’ve been out and about and it’s been too dark to do any Litter Ninja-ing of any sort, save for the odd can or Red Rooster bag I pick up as I’m passing by.
That said, there was one bit of litter that I did see – and smell – and passed by several times, stewing inside.
The street we live on backs onto the local high school and there’s tiny little grassy strip that cuts it in half to stop people from speeding and to confuse furniture and pizza delivery men. Two very unenthusiastic bottle brush trees live there, suffering from the regular clouds of cigarette smoke or from being leaned against during marathon snogging sessions from teenagers.
That’s just during the week. On the weekends, the trees are subject to having beer bottles smashed against their apathetic stabilising poles and a bit of illiterate scratching on their trunks and my tongs are used to gingerly pick up the scarier pieces of glass so that the kids can continue their Monday-to-Friday smoke-and-grope sessions in relative safety.
This time, the Loser Boozers had left an offering of a different kind; one that was much harder to pick up despite its size.
In fact it was so grand in stature that locals had begun to talk about it amongst themselves. Amy hurried young Patrick along, saying, “I don’t want him to get too close a look at it, but how can you not? Who on earth is capable of making such a thing?”
The thing was a human turd. Or big, brown, moist pyramid of excrement, oh-so-discreetly ‘covered’ with two men’s handkerchiefs, presumably used as wipes beforehand. This thing was so large it even threatened to overtake the community’s collective disgust and replace it with concern for the health of the person who laid such an awful egg. Had they survived? Were they able to walk again? Had the A&E Department been notified?
It was located in my designated Litter Ninja zone.
For three days I stewed, knowing that I could not ignore it and hope that it would go away. It was so immense that a village on its southern slopes had all but perished during a mud slide and Bert Newton was hosting a telethon on the northern side.
Our suburb is a peculiar mix of bogans, barristers and everything in between and frequently comes alive to the sound of renovations. Skip bins in Melbourne are everywhere and it appears to be an unspoken inevitability that the darkness brings out people from neighbouring weatherboard cottages, holding enormous IKEA boxes, busted microwaves, three-legged outdoor chairs and the traditional stained mattress.
Maybe I should contact some waste management expert to help me – their skips were already starting to mate and increase in number around my ‘hood like the urban equivalent of rabbits.....
......A couple of days later there other things on my mind besides the Chocolate Cheops four houses up. My editor hated the last article I submitted and actually said the words ‘big stick’ and ‘waste of my time’. My cholesterol level is now 7.4 (up from 6.5 the same time last year) and despite my regular runs I can no longer fit comfortably into the size 12 dress I was planning on wearing to a posh event later in the week and my little brother ended up in hospital.
Grabbing five shopping bags I strode up the street, whipping out some junk mail from Mr Divvy Van’s letterbox as I went. The papers sorta kinda covered the man mountain and the bags were used like big doggy doo gloves. Several layers later, the fifth bag was tied up and thrown into a nearby skip, with a nervous hope that the old sheet of corrugated iron that it landed on wasn’t going to pierce it....
After several OCD hand washes, I decided to phone Monash Uni’s neurological research unit as my sister-in-law had suggested. They were looking for people who suffered from regular migraines and depression to see if they could find a chemical as well as psychological link.
Would I be prepared to undertake a phone survey first, to determine if I’m a suitable candidate? Absolutely. Migraine symptoms, duration and frequency = definitely suitable.
Depression? Let me get back to you. Can I call you back, say later this afternoon after I’ve properly analysed the results and had a chat to my supervisor? Of course, knock yourself out. What do I care – I just hammer threw a two kilogram bag of poo into a skip!
Ring ring, ring ring, 3pm.
“Hi Kath, it’s Rebecca. We’ve had a look at your results and..... I’m really sorry, but you’re not suitable to participate our study.”
“How come?”
“Well.....,” she trailed off... “.....you’re too happy.”
And you know what? She’s right.
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