Saturday, 21 October 2017
My lovely Dad would bet on just about anything. I have very strong memories of Saturday afternoons pussy footing about cos he had his ear stuck to the old hand held radio cheering on his horses, and of course his mood soared with wins and I suppose plummeted with the inevitable losses but I don't recall seeing that. His wins were legendary.
One afternoon he came home and for full disclosure I should mention that he'd had a few, but as a salve to the old woman, he gave her literally fists full of cash. This was back in the day when folding money in Oz was actually made of paper. Anyway they had a row, possibly about the state he was in and she got the shits up and tore every bill into tiny pieces. I'd have been impressed with her ire if in the next heart beat she was not set up on the dining table with a mountain of money bits and some sticky tape. She worked for hours doing that money jigsaw, and then she'd have pocketed the thousands. He didn't care about the money he cared about the winning.
Well except that the walk up flat that was our Goldie Getaway, which is now being replaced by 3 sky high towers at Broadbeach, was paid for with betting winnings. He seemed to be pretty lucky pretty often.
And as gambling became more run-of-the-mill, his smile widened. He'd buy lotto and keno and 'scratchies' and would be party to footy pools and The Dogs as well as his beloved horses. The horses were always his favourite, not 'The Melbourne Cup' though cos that was 'just for mugs'.
He started working as a bookies helper when he was a boy - always excellent with numbers, and then there was the trooping up to the TAB to place his bets and then with technology came his TAB phone betting account, and if he was alive today, no doubt he'd have every fucking betting App on his smart phone.
And so we get to my point.
Have you seen the ad on the tellie for NED? It's some betting App. I don't know how it works and don't care to know, especially as the ad shows a bunch of low-life scumbags lying and lazying about a building site while the poor bastard paying them wanders around trying to work out why they are all idle except for their fingers on their phones. The turds play a game of 'There's a hole in my bucket dear Liza dear Liza,' blaming someone else for their lack of a start.
The ad just gives me the screaming irrits.
Under what sort of moral umbrella is it OK to scunge off the boss and lie to them and then gamble away the money you have just pilfered from them? At least we are saved from the usual bullshit slogan 'Gamble Responsibly' at the end of the ad, or maybe it is there but I am just too red in the face shouting at the tellie to hear it.
After a week of watching fuck all progress on the road, all I can think is that TMR workers all have this App and they spend their days taking the piss out of the tax payers who are ponying up their wages.
Wednesday, 18 October 2017
It's taken a while and it's a while til we head off, but we have got our tickets sorted and so at the end of May 2018 we will be jetting off for 6 weeks.
Many many bloody many calls and I have secured 2 return business tickets on points, on the days we wanted to go, with the connections which will see us just about running to make connections in Singapore. Yippee. No shit flights and no crappy connections in places no-one wants to go. Yippee indeed.
I have used points before. We went to Cairns one year and the flights and the car hire and the accommodation were all paid for on points. And I have gone shopping for shit that no-one really wants, but this is the first time I have used 'em all up in one foul hit, so please excuse me for feeling a little, well OK more than a little, nervous about it all.
Booking stuff on points is not for the feint hearted. You have to be considerably more than a little bloody minded and my advice would be to use the phone not the internet, cos the calls are recorded so what one person has promised has to be honoured, unless they have said you can have the plane when you are finished flying and that your pudding will be your body weight in chocolate mouse. But days of travel and confirmations versus waitlisted are honoured or at least that's my experience with SINGAPORE AIRLINES. Sure it has been a month of toing and froing but we are sorted. They are good people. They ring back when they say they are going to and they listen to call recordings to establish what has and hasn't be promised and then they issue the tickets, all confirmed.
So now the exciting part of the planning happens.
We will of course spend a week of so in London so Stevie can drink up with his mates, and we'll be there for the last week too, doing a deja vu, but the middle 4 weeks we are gonna do a train trip to wherever we fancy. AHHH!
I do love a train ride, and some of the journeys we are looking at sound bloody fantastic. One through the Alps, in some old train following slowly behind a goat herder - I might have made that bit up, clinging to the edge of the earth, makes Stevie almost shit his pants just thinking about it, but I reckon it sounds too good to miss, so it's on our list even if he has to spend the day wearing an eye mask and listening to Enya.
We are not drivers. Oh sure we drive. I know the M1 to Brisvegas ridiculously well, but driving is a means to an end. It brings no joy whatsoever, and whoever is driving gets to see bitumen and that's about all, so the train allows both of us to have a good look about even if Stevie will have to occasionally close his eyes.
Coincidentally most of the towns that are on our lists are 4 and a half hours apart - not the Alps train, - that's more like 10 hours. Stevie reckons that's a long time to be clinching his sphincter so we may break it up and stay overnight in a mountain village. Very nice too.
We haven't got a firm plan yet and maybe we wont have one even when we board the Eurostar and head for Germany, cos with smart phones and 4 and a half hours, planning will be possible on the run, well on our bums anyway. So we plan to start in Hamburg or maybe Hannover and end up in Rome and whatever else we see will be a big old bonus.
We lost a train once going from Budapest to Zagreb. It's a bit of a long story but anything other than loosing a whole train and our bags will be a bonus. The beers with the gun totting soldiers at the arse end of buggery in Eastern Europe and later the cackle of the farmers, remarkably assembled with our bags, all standing by the tracks in the middle of nowhere, where the train, full of chickens and truly wash deprived locals made an unscheduled stop, so the farmer strangers could return privileged stuff to strangers, remains an image in my mind, much more vivid than anything I have ever seen or posted on social media.
Yep that's the sort of adventure possible on a train.
Sunday, 15 October 2017
This is my Nanna's old couch which started the lounge room re-do. Will we recover it or get a newie? We are saying goodbye to this old gal, the couch I have spent most of my life bum planting. Fare thee well.
It's amazing how quickly you can get out of a habit huh? For no good reason I just stopped tapping away almost a month ago and I don't know why.
I enjoy having a little say, unedited and uninterrupted, but then I didn't. Oh well.
It's been quite the month really.
Almost every week night there has been fucking road work noise and no satisfaction from the fuckers who are meant to be working for us, ho hum, all the same there I guess.
The lounge room has undergone a huge transformation and so now when we decide to give selling the Big House another go, people will see that the room is big enough for a football team to play charades while watching the tellie and getting pissed as rats. Buyers' imagination will not need to be extended passed the ends of their noses.
I have painted fences and planted up stuff on the deck and I have thoroughly enjoyed watching one of the trees grow literally a foot, well not a foot as in feet but as in 30 cm! How bloody clever am I? And whilst bragging about my Farmer Sue talents I am the proud grower of a crop of Lilies inside the house and a huge bush full of daisies and other things outside. Spring has sprung here well and truly.
Dog has recovered from her knee replacement surgery and whilst we are all still being careful she is already much improved on before the work so it's been a big winner. Yeh there is no more chasing the ball which was her favourite thing in the world, but she is back to playing and swimming and walking out so we are hoping she will get over the loss soon enough if we keep her distracted.
My Darling Boy finished with his yellow belt and is now proudly flashing his bright blue one. Very pretty indeed. This was not without incident as when Bell and I went off to watch we were told no parents were allowed in the room, consequently there was all manner or argy bargy outside the door as people jostled like hungry animals at a too small food trough. Not me though, I sat stony faced away from the melee, all those people shoving about sneezing and snorting were too much for me. But as you might expect I did not keep my discontent to myself and I do believe that respect and manners and decorum might have fallen from my mouth. The final explanation was that apparently some of the parents were getting busy loudly criticising the kids while they did their stuff, and so instead of telling those parents off or putting up a sign, or frogg marching them outta there like they do at the footy, it was decided that NO PARENTS would be allowed in. This seemed like over kill to me, and it has yet to be resolved, but at least now there is discussion about it. We'll see.
My mutants have been given a knocking and so for the first time I am in MMR Major Molecular Response, not the kids vaccine. That means I am at 0.04, nah that's not as good as 0.00 something but it's a hell of a lot better than my last one of 0.14, and so yippee to me and the drugs! Most people make it within a year and it has taken me more than 18 months, but ho hum, I had nothing better to do and there was nothing I could have done to hurry it up so Oh Well. I do believe that Dr Greg actually cracked a smile this time. Quite the result.
And I have started painting again. And not an image of mutant cells or something hideous. I am impatiently waiting for it to dry so I can go hard on the next layer, but I reckon it is gonna be joyful. I sure am enjoying the squirting and blowing and dripping. Yeh any fool could do it, but I am the fool at the moment. Ahh.
Doesn't sound like much of a month really, but the lounge required 2 trips to Ikea, 2 trips to a rug shop, 3 trips to Nick Scali and a bit of fisticuffs literally, and Stevie assembling the stuff and me cleaning out the store room so I could fit in all the other furniture. Nothing is ever easy is it? And the new arrangement is lovely and it required new art work so that was the push to get out the paints. What a fab excuse!
Really nothing sounds like much in the telling of the finished work, but whilst I haven't broken too much of a sweat except for painting the the fence and doing the furniture drag I have been as busy as I fancied being, especially as most afternoon I have been forced onto the couch, not the new one cos I don't want to get it dirty and Dog doesn't see it as anything other than a place to rest her molting body, and she is wherever I am, bless her. So afternoons I have been trying to catch up on lost sleep due to bullshit on the road - I can't even call it work, I work harder shoving furniture than these fellas do, and I am efficient and practical and I know what I am doing. Ho Hum And of course I have been running in with the body guards with guns dressed in the police uniforms paid for with Tax Dollars. No more arrests to mention to date so - WINNER WINNER CHICKEN DINNER.
Saturday, 23 September 2017
How many ice creams do you have in your freezer?
Now if you are not a mad ice cream lover or if you prefer your pudding in a tub, or you are on some shitful diet which precludes one of the day's biggest highlights ( sorry to hear this - Bugger!) well then maybe the answer is a simple NONE, and you know this cos you haven't bought so much as a box of Paddle Pops since 1972 when you need the sticks for a science project.
But ice cream is my bloody favourite end of day treat. I have been known to chow it down by the litre, especially if it's the good stuff, but at a tenner a tub, that's an expensive bit of pudding. I do love curling up in my chair and grabbing a spoon and hooking straight into the carton. Yeh Stevie doesn't eat it. Lucky huh cos otherwise I'd need to pop some in a bowl to avoid cross contamination.
My Lovely Girl and I were out for a girlie dinner at the pub on Tusday. The grandie boy was off on holidays with his father, so we pushed the boat out and ventured out into the public domain. She had steak and I had a seafood mix and then when we were done, she scouted out the desserts and we both decided just a bowl of ice cream would be lovely, but it needed to be a BIG bowl. The waiter understood, cos she was a bit of a creamy fiend too, and she did indeed deliver 2 walloping bowls full. It was OK but not the good stuff, not so bad as we left any though.
In an attempt to avoid spending night after night sleeping sitting up, because there is a fine line between enough 'animal fat' and so much that heart burn is a bitch, Stevie often buys 4 packs of wonderful ice cream treats, and as the week disappears, I am always aware of exactly how many are left in the freezer.
I like to spend the day comfortable in the knowledge that at the going down of the sun and the slumping of my arse into my chair for my daily dose of shit TV, there will be a delicious treat which with any luck, will not be slopped all down the front of me - happens at least half the time, Oh Well!
But this week my mind has definitely left the building. 4 nights with no sleep at all, scrambling all over the loungeroom floor, will do that to the poor old grey matter. Last night Stevie set me up in his study on the floor with the doors closed and the radio on loud enough to cover the noise outside, and I don't know if it was the change in geography or just complete and utter debilitating exhaustion, but I did sleep, 9 glorious hours with only 8 times flailing about and 3 times fully awake for sometime, and I'll bet that was when the noise outside far exceeded the radio levels inside.
So I've been too tired to keep an ice cream tally which is usually as instinctive as breathing. BUGGER!
All I can say is that it's just as well that I am not in charge of heavy equipment cos then at best I would be doing a Georgiou level shit job, and at worst I could kill someone.
Sleep, it is something that we take for granted, and by we, I mean people who do not have babies and small children, cos I reckon sleep might just be a bit of a distant memory for them - I truly do not know how parents who work outside the home manage - just throwing clothes on and remembering to brush my teeth has been a struggle this week. I have not combed my hair, the washing has laid idle, and cooking has been done on auto pilot. If I had thrown being in charge of 200 kids into the mix, well all I can say is that havoc would have doubtless ensued.
TMR have refused all phone calls this week, with promises from the switch board person, that someone would ring me back 'shortly'. The powerlessness and the inability to find anyone, anyone at all, willing to stand up and take responsibility for the construction planning and execution is as debilitating as the lack of sleep.
Will anyone give this tired woman with only 1 ice cream left a clue about how to actually discuss any of this with someone with seniority in a government department? PLEASE!
Tuesday, 19 September 2017
Here's last night's 'work' and today NOTHING. Quiet during the day, all hell breaking loose at night.
'I have dealt with you before!'
Well what could this possibly have meant?
If it was cooed to you by your Pizza Shop owner, then you know that they recognise your voice and they know that you want a No. 5 regular with NO CAPSICUM. And all is well with the world, cos these folk make bloody marvellous Pizzas and there is never a dot of the red yukky stuff on 'em. I like it that they have 'dealt with me before'. It'd feel comfortable and cosy and just a little bit special.
When it's stuttered by the car mechanic place I can only imagine that they are a little nervous, because they know that even though I have been telling them for 10 YEARS to stop emailing me and texting me and calling me to tell me my car is due a service, they have never listened and they have emailed and texted and called me and this time wrote to me snail mail too, so they are waiting for me to go off a bit like a rocket. The whole slick as shit showroom type place staffed by people who haven't a clue about the actual running of your car, well it just gives me the shits. I'd much rather chat to a grubby person with a grease smeared face who has been up to their elbows in my engine, than some tosser in a suit, who wants to impress me with their ability to read the written word and take my money. The suited and booted and the flash 'grab the money' centre, just all adds to the cost.
Yeh sometimes 'I have dealt with you before', delivered in a whisper almost under the breath indicates a modicum of fear or perhaps utter boredom with having to get on the bloody merry-go-round with this crazy cow again.
But what about if it was shouted at you across the street by a person in uniform, who perhaps, because they were waving about a red light, Darth Vader wand and who seemed to be deluded enough to believe that they are all powerful, the omnipotent traffic controller in a Queensland Police uniform, what about then?
I looked back at this woman who was directing traffic, who was perhaps also charged with stopping said traffic so pedestrians might more safely make their way, and sure enough it was the woman who had grabbed me and shoved me about and questioned my sanity one rainy night about 7 or 8 months ago.
I have not looked this up, but is part of the police mantra to PROTECT AND SERVE?
She saw us and ignored us, made no moves to stop traffic so we could safely cross the road, and so being 2 reasonably able bodied souls, we took it upon ourselves to walk across the road when it was safe to do so.
Yeh, we looked Right then Left then Right again. Except that we really only looked right cos we were only going half way across and then we looked left and walked.
Well that gave the god like one the shits didn't it. She started shouting at us that we were foolish, that she 'had dealt with me before'.
I asked if we were gonna be arrested again for crossing the road too slowly and Stevie just told her to piss off.
She fancied that we were gonna grant her all sorts of power, that we were gonna stand there on the side of the road like a pair of gormless fools, and wait for her to tell us that it was safe to cross. She thought we would only walk across at her behest.
Yeh her 'I've dealt with you before' was supposed to be a threat.
Yeh the noise has started up again.
Work that could and should be done during the day is going ahead all night.
Last night it drew out half a dozen locals. Perhaps the coppers need to send out more paddy wagons tonight cos the noise is supposed to be ongoing til Friday.
Saturday, 16 September 2017
I blame every little change in my body on The meds.
This is of course ridiculous and irrational and stupid.
But it saves me wondering what the fuck is going on and consequently having to head off to the doctor to see if anything is wrong. I don't want to go to the doctor cos I am not interested in any more bad news, and I am not sure that anybody ever hears good news there, so I just don't want to go.
So the meds are to blame for everything:
- I poo too much - The meds
- I poo too little - The meds
- I burst into tears watching an ad on the tellie - The meds
- I break a nail making the bed - The meds
- The solar lights around the pool break - The meds
- Dog needs an operation on her leg - The meds
- Donald Trump is a dangerous fool - The meds
- Some people are actually gonna vote NO in the non binding opinion gathering about Gay Marriage. - The meds.
Of course there is an upside too cos I am still here and the numbers of mutants are under control. And maybe with a small mind set alteration I could see attributing other good things to The Meds too. I am gonna work on that.
But irrationality too often seems to be the order of the day. Bugger!
So I guess there is a chance that the surplus skin on my hands is caused by something other than The meds, but I just don't want to admit to it.
I remember my lovely Nanna's hands and they seemed also to have too much skin, so I suppose it's possible that it's just an AGE thing. BUGGER! She would say better too much skin than not enough, but then she was alive during the Wars.
Skin is a remarkable organ...biggest in the body. It stretches and shrinks all our lives, until I guess it doesn't. Maybe it just gets the shits up with accommodating a bit of extra pud and then being required to shrink cos someone went on the Israeli, only apples that have committed suicide, and bacon after 5pm, diet.
Who could blame it for getting shitty? Puberty, pregnancy, kilos over, kilos under, a cut here, a scratch there, a rash there and some acne here, too much sun, too little moisturiser. It's a lot to ask.
But now as I am looking at my hands, I wonder if there isn't something we could do with all that extra skin, maybe small purses? or we could combine a few people's surplus into a patchwork handie?
Trouble with this idea is that a chunk would have to sliced off and sent to the tanners and what would happen to that old saying, 'I know it like the back of my hand'?
Friday, 15 September 2017
This is Stevie and me when we first started to live together, matching dressing gowns and pint cups of tea. We still have those mugs, but not the robes.
Unless you NEVER tune into social media and you live under a rock and you have a hermit like existence, it is unlikely that you have lasted through the last few months - (I just made that up, cos I have no idea how long a big herd of women have been debasing themselves supposedly in a bid to capture their Prince Charming), without hearing shit about 'The Bachelor'. It's on at dinner time and if I have been slack about changing the channel or indeed pausing the box altogether, it drones on as we shovel in food and even the sound of bones being chewed clean or carrots being crunched, or Dog begging for left-overs, is not loud enough to out do it.
I am completely over the bullshit. The trite, editor fed lines, the contrived situations, the banal leaping off of shit in a bid to fulfil advertising and sponsorship obligations, all give me the screaming irrits, but mostly it's the way the women behave that I find truly appalling. Yeh I know they are ALL just playing their roles, they are all doing whatever it is that their contracts require, but I just can't fathom how, firstly anyone believes it's real, and secondly WHY they carry on as they do. Perpetuating shitty female stereotypes is something we can all do without.
Dating used to be an exciting adventure, and if you were really lucky you'd be forging a relationship with someone who is equally keen and hopefully hasn't come straight from having their tongue down some other girl's throat.
But the rules have changed.
Recently I sat in a posh restaurant for dinner and just observed the other diners. Yeh I had my phone and my Kindle, but my entertainment for the evening was perving on others.
There were large tables of visitors who could well have been part of a tour group, cos there seemed to be a leader who spoke enough English and could translate and order for everyone. I had a wee giggle to myself cos they all asked for and were provided with, chop sticks even though it was not an Asian restaurant. I laughed because where ever I go I have to ask for a knife and fork or a spoon cos I am hopeless with chop sticks. Horses for courses and all that.
There was an old married couple (I presumed married to each other, but perhaps they were participants in a long term affair, in any case they were very comfortable in each other's presence) who enjoyed sharing a bottle of wine and talked nonstop about day to day shit, nothing intimate, just daily banality, as they enjoyed the food they didn't cook themselves.
And then 2 well heeled young fellas bounced on in. They ordered cocktails and because I suffer from stereotype overload, I sort of thought perhaps they were a gay couple, until they settled into a break down of their dating life since last they had met. So definitely NOT a couple then, and probably not gay either.
They looked at the menu and asked the waiter for the price of the lobster. '$360'
'Shit' I thought, 'Glad I am chewing up the prawns instead.'
The fellas were a little aghast but played it cool until the waiter went on to serve someone else. And then the bloke facing me was reminded of a recent date with a girl they both knew. Yeh the price was the trigger for the following story.
'I spent 400 bucks for dinner on our second date, cos I just wanted to root her.'
I choked a little on my Pinot G.
They were both being so loud and forthright about it all.
'Yes, she is quite a bitch, but very good looking.'
And so this is what dating in 2017 is like huh?
I didn't listen to any more. I dragged out my phone and played 'Find a Word'. They told the waiter they weren't going to eat at all, just drink. I presumed he wasn't best pleased, but he did bring 'em another cocktail.
So if this is modern day dating, then perhaps 'The Bachelor' is not far off the mark.
Sophie Monk's 'Bachelorette' starts soon and I suppose given the huge amount of wonga that has been stumped up, she will do quite a lot of doing as she's told and I guess the fellas will do the male equivalent of bitchy back-stabbing, whatever that is, and if there is any love to be found, I imagine it will be between one of the fellas and someone on the production crew, but that will all be kept very quiet.
I doubt I have the energy to date even one bloke, let alone keep a dozen of more clear in my mind.
All I can think of is that I hope no-one has a cold sore, cos this place would just be a herpes' paradise.