Thursday, 30 July 2015

Adam Goodes, I am not a racist!



I was just minding my own business yesterday, whipping up a yummy dinner to feed the returning golfer - he's always fanging for food after a round, and I had the radio on, so I could pretend to be getting an aerobic workout flinging my knife armed arms about in saddo dance moves, when a discussion about Adam Goodes began.

I wasn't sure who he was but that became clear very quickly. Yeh he is the footballer who doesn't like being heckled and was named Australian of the Year, and now has made an announcement that he takes offence to every taunt from every paying customer and that it doesn't matter WHAT is being said, because he reckons it's all racist, and because he has said so, then it is and so it had better stop.

Well I reckon this sounds pretty nuts. There is no end to the racist put downs people can sprout, and I am not gonna go through 'em, but if someone yells out that he is a dickhead, then that's not racist, even if he has given a warning that that's how he's gonna take it. That's just their opinion, and surely they are entitled to it. What if someone was to yell, 'That was a shit kick you tall drink of water!' Not nice but not racist, even if he says he perceives it to be.

Going to the footie is not for the weak. People yell out all sorts of shit. I have been know to do a bit of yelling myself in times gone. I can't recall yelling out anything about a player's colour or ethnicity, but I have yelled plenty if they had been in the news for abusing their partner, or if they were forever involved in cheating play, and I might have in my younger years even yelled about someone being a big fat stinker. Yeh I don't get out much anymore for obvious reasons.

So poor old Adam has decided to perceive any taunt as a racial slur. This is ridiculous! It's a lame sort of blackmail in a PC crazy world, where just because he says he feels racially insulted the person speaking is a racist.

It's a bit like someone deciding to be a bullying victim who says that anytime someone looks at them that they feel bullied. Just because they say it doesn't make it so.

And really it just doesn't do anyone any favours, cos calling someone a douche-bag is just not the same as calling them the N word.

The radio fella agreed that anyone who vented their spleen on Goodes, regardless of what they said, in fact even if they said nothing and only BOOed, then they were being racist cos that was what the all powerful Adam had decreed.

I reckon the radio jock was being a dickhead, I do hope he's not black cos he might take that the wrong way.

Wednesday, 29 July 2015

More on Reality Tellie.


Yep Reality Tellie is like watching ourselves fry.

Master Chef is DONE, and whilst I was not at all invested in the outcome, I have to admit that I thought Georgia was a bit hard done by. What beggars belief is the disparity between winners and losers.

Billie and Georgia.

There was soo little in it, but Billie walks away with $250000 and a whole bucket load of other stuff and Georgia gets a perfunctory $20000 and bugger all. Yeh she might be able to make a name for herself but that is gonna take hard work and some luck.

I reckon competitions in the real world are more fairly decided and the winnings are more reasonably distributed. On reality tellie it's all or bugger all.


I just couldn't face putting his face on here.

I might be the only person in Oz who has not ever watched 'The Bachelor', and so I say this without the smallest shred of first hand knowledge, but it seems that the winner, and boy do I ever use that term loosely, well she gets the boy. And the others well they get to have their faces in our faces for a while and maybe then they get to do a cheese commercial or MC local supermarket promos. In this instance I reckon the winners are not the ones getting the sanctimonious lying piece of poo who gets to put them through their paces like they were dancing fillies performing for a circus, no the winners are the ones lucky enough to escape unscathed.

Yeh I just don't know what incentives can be offered for normal women to opt to put themselves through this inspection. I just had a quick look at their bios online and how wonderful it must be to be able to sum up a woman in 2 lines!

So I am not gonna watch it again this year.

Ahhhh


I am enjoying 'Dancing with the Stars', even though I don't know who half of them are. It goes for a hideous eternity on a sunday night but if you are cheeky and record it, you can watch it in fast forward without all the bullshit in less than an hour, and I do like watching them dance. The 'winnings' are distributed from the off, with some of the money from the voters' calls going to the charities of choice and so the disparity between winners and losers is not so great.

2 more cooking type shows have started this week and to be honest I am pretty cooked out. This is not to say that I will not get involved, just not yet.


What reality tellie do you watch and which shows get right up under your fingernails like a bit of Chinese water torture?

Sunday, 26 July 2015

Wierd Sunday



I was up at a sparrow's fart today cos I fancies going off to the local markets that a girl friend of mine organises. Hi ya Nik.  https://www.facebook.com/yrlocalmarkets?fref=nf

They are usually held at the Turf Club but they were shunted outta there and rather than cancel it they relocated to the Arts Centre. Nik has worked every day this week measuring and working out where to put everyone, It is a very big job and I wanted to pop in to see the fruits of her labour.

Now the markets are up and running at 6am. I mean really, who is up at that hour any day, let alone on a Sunday? So I was only up and sorted by 7. I looked out the back anf there was this whalloper boat parked up on the beach. I thought it looked like a very pretty boat, and as the young bloke jumped off it carrying a big white plastic bag of stuff and herding a dog, I felt sorry that he'd be a bit early for a fish and chips breakfast.



Boaties often pull up and head to the village for a six-pack and some snacks.

But then I noticed that he didn't take time to tie his boat up so I figured he was just there to dump some crap. That's a long way to go to throw some shit away but who am I to judge?

The tide was going out so I was pretty sure that the boat wasn't gonna float away.

I looked out into the park and saw 3 blokes standing sort far apart but not far apart if you know what I mean...well why should you know what I mean, I am not sure if I know what I mean.

The markets were lovely. Soo much better than at the Turf Club. I wonder if it's possible to move 'em to the Arts Centre permanently. There was a jovial community feel and it was cool to see different stalls that I clearly miss at the old place. I had a little coffee date with Bob and a good poke around and then was back at home at about 9ish.

Well bugger me - the boat was still there well and truly grounded on the sand. This was most unexpected.

I called the police while we waited for our coffee.

We did the back and forward back and forward dance around and finally Christian from the Water Police discovered that the boat had in deed been stolen from somewhere near upper Coomera. I didn't know there was even water there.

While we waited for confirmation of the theft, Christian and I discussed whether or not I should tie the boat up as the tide was coming in and if it floated free it would very likely do damage to people's pontoons or boats etc.

He suggested that it might not be wise cos if there was any damage to the boat as a result of it being tied up by an amateur, the owners could sue me....Just for being helpful! How have we come to this shitful situation?

Anyway as soon as it was certain it had been stolen, he told me to keep well clear of it in case they could get some finger prints, and now I am on look out, armed with a camera and a direct phone number, in case the thief comes back. Christian is on his way.

So not my ordinary old Sunday!

I do wonder who in the hell steals a boat from the suburbs and drives it down to another suburb and parks it up and then buggers off with a big white bag of stuff and a dog? It just doesn't sound like fun to me, but then I haven't spent too much time stealing boats.

If it was my boat I reckon I would be offering a reward to the civic minded individual who bothered to report it and track it down and look after it for me, but given the current litigious nature of people, perhaps it is more likely that I will find myself in trouble. I do hope not.

Saturday, 25 July 2015

Expectations.


Sometimes, when delusions blur with reality, I see myself as a young woman running gracefully, Bo Derek style along the beach to a musical crescendo that climaxes as I dive smoothly into the waves.

Of course this was never my reality. I have spent a lot of time at the beach, face planted into the sand, boobs popping out of too small togs, and sandwedgies - not the same as sandwiches I can tell you! - though a sandwich would be more comfortable up your gunoo than the other.

I have been thinner but never has anyone accused me of being elegant.

When I was about 18 during another eternity when the parentals were not speaking and the old woman was off overseas somewhere and my lovely Dad needed a 'date' for his men's club's Ladies' Night, I got all gussied up for him to make him proud.

He had given me a handful of cash and told me to get myself something that was good for a formal / black-tie event.

I was a cashed up skinny big titted arrangement, so that should have been easy. I knew what was expected but still bought a pair of velvet flairs and a velvet bomber blouse thing that I really liked - but that I have no recollection of ever wearing again. I plastered on so much makeup that I no longer recognised myself, and had my hair done at the salon....ooo very posh.

Dad, bless him, was not the least bit disappointed or embarrassed as he presented me to his goggle-eyed friends, even as they wink wink nod nodded to each other as they circulated the rumour that I was a prozzie, not the daughter, who they all still thought of a child. And still Dad  was not shitty.

We ate and chattered and drank flash wines and then there was the dancing.

I don't reckon anyone was left in any doubt that I was in fact Ted's daughter after that. We managed to maintain a degree of grace until we didn't. When we buggered up a step, or I flew my arm out and wacked some expensive older woman in the girdle, we both feel about laughing. We weren't embarrassed and it didn't make us feel we should give in to the 'elf and safety police and vacate the floor.

I am lucky that I inherited from my Dad, my disregard for other's opinions about who I am or what I look like or what I do.

And now, older and dozens of kilos heavier, I still don't give too much of a shit. Yeh I would like to be thinner, but even if I was I still wouldn't look like everyone else and the weight hasn't impacted on the way I think. Age may well be allowing a more 'don't give a fuck attitude' which is liberating so I still fling myself about wildly and sometimes end up in a pile of ungainly limbs.

I watch these celebrities and royals all spanxed up and rigid, saying what is expected and behaving with decorum and I feel a little claustrophobic, as I imagine myself looking for a door and a handie big enough to take my jumbo bra and blister making shoes.


I really enjoy stories about Kate and Wills, but here I reckon they are both wondering what force wind is gonna be needed before she looses the hat.

Do you do as you're told?
How far do you follow along the road of social expectations?

Thursday, 23 July 2015

Travel tips for Nutters


Image result for virgin australia logoImage result for virgin australia logoImage result for virgin australia logo

There is a competition being run by Virgin Australia and I am gonna share this entry with 'em.

It's all very well to gather tips about traveling with kids or old people, or determining what is best to wear, or what should be packed into you carry-on bag, or what airports are best for stop-overs, and of course Seat Guru will give you all the comparative info you need about seat sizes and plane configurations. All of this info is easily found and useful for 'normal' folk.


But what about those of us, who are other than normal?

Now there are many variations of 'normal' and I can't speak for them all, so here's my advice for people who do not travel well cos they go into panic attack mode - definitely different to flight mode, as soon as the fella in front slides their seat back, and I will include a little aside for migraine sufferers just for good measure.

If you have a fear of every other sod on the plane using up your air, then you need to plan well in advance.

Get your GP, who no doubt already knows most of your quirks, to fill in the airline medical form. Just a little note from your doctor I don't think is gonna cut it. Mine is a MEDIF form for Virgin Atlantic, but I have presented it to other airlines and it seems to be similarly effective. I am pretty sure you can download the forms or your travel agent will be able to help.



When you book your flights I reckon it's easier to do it with an agent cos they can see your letter and then they can call the Seating God and even if there is a policy of not pre-booking seats, usually it is possible cos let's face it, you are nutty, and no-one wants an 'episode' on board a short or long haul flight.

The aisle seats are the only ones to go for - an aisle exit row seat is the best even if you have to pay a few extra bucks for it....root around behind the couch cushions and find some coins cos it is definitely worth it. They will ask you if you are able to work the escape door and of course you are, cos you might be nuts, but that doesn't mean your arms don't work.

Get to the airport early and check in in person even though you will have checked in on line, cos sometimes changes happen and you could have been bumped out of your seat - yes this has happened to me, and then a little melt down is in order to ensure you get what you had already sorted.

Once you have your boarding pass you are pretty much guaranteed to be sitting where you think you are sitting, so you can plonk yourself down for a cuppa and a muffin and begin to enjoy your holiday.

Line up early to board, so you can get on and stow your handies- if you are in the exit row everything will need to go up up up, but don't sit down, wait til you inside passengers get there and let 'em in, cos there is no point sitting in that confined space any longer than necessary.

Not being very tall I often have to stare down giants who have the shits up cos I am sitting where there is more room. Just look 'em in the eye with a 'go to buggery' look on your face.

Listen to the spiel about how to work the door, and try hard to commandeer the arm rest...this is very dependant upon the pushie shovie battle with you neighbour.

Then just settle in.

If it's a short domestic hop, read your kindle or have a little nap.

If it's long haul, take your shoes off, down some Phenergan ( good idea to test drive this at home before your first flight in case it leaves you a drooling wide-awake mess)  and see if sleep is possible. An eye mask and some gel ear plugs really do help.


The nutso repercussion for me on a long haul flight, regardless or whether I am in Economy or Business class, ( I have no First class experience - although I would not say, 'No' to giving it a burl )
is that all too often I wind up with a vomity migraine. It is best to carry what ever meds you need to counter the migraine with you, especially if your regime is Aspirin based cos planes seem to be only permitted to carry Panadol. What they will be able to help you out with is rubber gloves filled with ice and these little wonders wrapped in some paper towel placed behind your neck could bring relief.

If unfortunately the vomits cannot be avoided, take a sick bag and head to the loos. There is no room for the usual driving of the big porcelain bus, so you will need to sit on the loo and pop the bag in the sink and hurl away. There's not a lot of room, but there is more here than in your usual economy seat, so claustrophobic panic attacks should not be a problem. It's great when you only have to deal with one thing at a time.

It's not wise to hop into the champers if you have a migraine, but I haven't ever tried having so many that I fall into a stupor, and if you are on a 14 hour flight and if you think you have time to sleep it off, then maybe this is worth a go.

I reckon the number one bit of advice to nutso travellers is to be very very pleasant to the crew, cos you just don't know when you will need their help and I have seen people be wildly rude who are then surprised when there is not much help offered.

The crew are your own personal little angels - treat 'em well.


I have had panic attacks and migraines on planes more times than I care to remember and the staff have always just been wonderful. There's not much they can do but they do it well.

I like to read about travel advice outlining how to pack for a week by rolling shit together so it can fit into a thimble and where to go and what to do and who to see when you get there, but I reckon there might be space in the dim corners of travel guides for those of us who are in need of a little help in dealing with the demons.

Of course we are all different and just cos some of this works some of the time for me, doesn't mean it will work ever for anyone else. Good luck


Tuesday, 21 July 2015

Ranty Pants Tuesday


There are some things that we, living in the great land of OZ, take for granted. We know that when we flip the switch by some miracle, light there be, and we know almost certainly that if you are out and about and need to pee, Maccas loos are clean and no-one will care whether or not you are a valued customer, feel free to pee away. We know that regardless of which party is democratically elected, people will whinge about 'em and we accept that almost universally people believe they could teach a year 9 Citizenship class for an hour on a Friday afternoon without loss of teeth or flying broken furniture.

We accept that when we turn on the hot water that it will stream on out scorching hands unless the whole system has been adjusted by the ol' 'elf and safety gnomes. Well that is, unless you live in the Big House.

Sunday is slide into the bath and it's most important cos it's scrape the legs day and then enjoy the clean sheets night. Sure, the tub is filled on other days, but Sunday soaking is an institution, far more reliable than most of the shite that slips out of realestate agents' mouths.

Last Sunday, I ran the bath and then phaffed around making beds and putting away ironing and all that usual crap, and when there was about enough water, in I dove, book in hand, ready for my 3 hour marathon. Except that the water was not hot, it wasn't even tepid! Shit!! This was not good. The bubbles were popping and the razor was sharp, the kindle was charged and Steve was doing whatever it is he does while I float. ( Yeh I don't float and he makes Sunday Roast - I say this for full disclosure.)

The tub was not even half full and too cold to allow a long stay. Bugger!! Legs were scraped and I scampered out. Bugger Bugger Bugger!! I do enjoy my Sunday ritual.

But I shouldn't be whinging too loudly. Steve had exactly NO water, except COLD. He did a bit of a wibble wobble at the machine, but by Monday morning it was clear that it was fucked...That's the technical term I used. When the techie arrived he was more specific but it was just as fucked.

The thing is some whiz bang heat transfer eco greenie thing. It's Government greenie approved and it came with a 5 year warranty, when it was bought and installed, almost exactly to the day 6 years ago.


Steve is sanguine about this. The warranty needs to run out sometime, and of course he is right. But how greenie, eco, sustainable, Ozone saving is a machine that shits itself in such short order? The old style electric things, or the gas ones, that work by some sort of non-greenie magic, well they seem to hang in there for decades. This is a lot of kit to hit the bin after only 6 years don't you think?

It is possible that the importers are a little embarrassed cos a replacement machine has been ordered at the wholesale cost to them - yeh right, was that an agent speaking? of about HALF of what ours cost 6 years ago, or maybe they are just all being made in China now instead of Germany. I will be long gone before I can figure out how any of this works.

The machine which is coming from Melbourne or maybe Brisvegas was ordered yesterday and will arrive tomorrow - no delivery charge or at least they had the good grace to incorporate it into the rest of the bill. Not bad huh? 2 days for a walloper thing to get here.

I sold a little toy for Zig on ebay and the winner lives in Tassie. Yeh the little thing weighed in at less than  200gms and apart from the idiot at the Post Office not being able to advise about the best wrapping for it, I selected a bag and paid for the postage of nearly 8 dollars, and then the goober proudly told me it would be delivered in, - wait for it, remember that my hot water thing that takes 2 burly blokes to lift will be delivered in 2 days, only 48 little hours, - yeh it takes 4 fucking days for the toy to make it to Tassie. No bloody wonder that Oz Post is going broke. They need to up the service.

So as I was visiting Bell and Zig yesterday and as we had no hot water here and my hair needed some attention, I packed up the potions and showered at her place. I had some new stuff for hair thickening, some Loreal stuff, that looked very high tech, like some 2 part chemical splodge. I followed the directions and you know what? Bugger me if one of the squirter things was clogged up and so the 2 part complex was only one -part and as I plopped it on my hair, I was just hoping that the other bit that was stuck in the bottle wasn't the bit that stopped my hair falling out at the roots. I hate it when things don't work, even simple things like this.


I got a fork tine to it this morning and fixed it.

Shame that a fork or a screwie wasn't enough to fix the hot water thing.



Sunday, 19 July 2015

Liebster Award

Well Bugger Me!! no not literally ta very much, but Michelle from Pinky Poinker has nominated me for an award!

Well yeh it's a made up sort of thing that allows Bloggers to go on about themselves like they are famous but it has spread all over the world in a more pleasant way than an Esso Oil spill.

So here goes.

 

1. What makes you happy? 
A table full of food all perfectly separated in pretty bowls, and no-one double dipping with their delightfully diseased forks or spoons and certainly not their fingers. Of course I make an exception for .... yep ME. Everyone else can just keep outta my food please.

2. Why did you start blogging? 

I have plastic boxes of festering mouldy diaries which chronicle all manner of banal life crap, which I am carefully - well not really, keeping for my Girl, and when I figured out at least rudimentarily how to blog, I just thought it would be a cleaner legacy for her.

3. What is 
best thing anyone has ever said about your blog?
I love it when people just laugh out loud. That's the best response. If someone actually told a tale of weeing themselves, that would be the top of my list, as long as I wasn't sitting on a tram next to them when it happened.

4. What is one piece of advice you would offer or one saying you live by? 
I haven't the least bit of an idea about advice for other people. Maybe cut your toenails so you don't wear holes in your shoes...me I wear thongs every day so it doesn't matter.

5. What are your top three bucket list items?


Well first I need to find a bucket cos they are very handy, so a big red shiny metal bucket. And I'd like to be able to keep a pair of 'good' scissors just for sewing, cos I am bad at grabbing the first thing to hand and if necessary McGyvering a solution to just about anything, so knives can become shovels and scissors can become can openers. And lastly I would like to see my girl settled and happy.

6. What is your ultimate guilty pleasure? 

I don't believe in guilt.

7. What is one product or service you cannot live without?

Getting my hair done. I spent years slopping shit onto my hair in my kitchen, dripping dye all over the floor and my favourite clothes, and then I found out just how bad it really looked, in comparison to having it done by someone who actually knows what they are doing. Hairdressers - just can't live without em. Ta Ann-Brit

8. What is your favorite Australian travel destination? 
Melbourne for glamour and getting toshed up
Sydney for speed - not the drugs and food and ferry rides.
Brisvegas cos it will always be home.
And 'The best beach in the world' Narrowneck on the Goldie
 
Yeh I am greedy about Oz.

9. What two countries make you the happiest to visit? 

The UK feels like home and the food in Italy is worth the plane ride.

10. What is your dream destination? 
New York in the winter. I went in the summer and my feet blew up like balloons and I had to buy a pair of sneakers from a shop in the Trump Towers! They did not match ANY of the clothes I had taken and whilst I might have been comfy, I looked like a bag lady on holiday.
 

I would like to nominate these people for a Liebster Award.

Tamara from www.tamzentemple.com.au

 

 

Saturday, 18 July 2015

Undies, Grundies, Exotic Lingerie or Commando?


A little pressie for someone off on a hot date weekend. Matching bits bound for the floor?


When I was 11, the nature of your Knicky-noos became extremely important. I am old enough to remember when bikini knickers came into vogue. My mother must have thought they were the work of the devil and so it was great big bloomers for me, until my 11th birthday, when all my girlfriends presented me with divine bikini knickers in a variety of colours and styles and I can still recall very clearly the lacy black pair with a little red bow. Well the old woman nearly blew a gasket and I was forbidden from wearing them to school. I was meant to save 'em for the weekend.

Yeh right! I wore 'em under the bloomers and whipped those shitful things off when I walked around the corner and then I was good to go the big Flash at the high jump. I hand washed 'em in the shower and just kept popping the bloomers into the family wash.

In years 8 and 9 at The Convent, the sports uniform included those hideous bloomers, and the Nuns seemed to have the god given right to stop you dead in your tracks and ferret away under your dress to check that your bits were covered by yards of gabardine. The knicker police and the ruler measure of dress length are among my strongest memories of my short stay with the Nuns.

Perhaps because of all this controversy, once I started being responsible for covering my own arse, I  opted for pretty bits of nothing.

Of course there have been less than cute interludes like when I was preggie and weighed in at heavyweight status. Maybe I just didn't look hard enough, but the confusion about what knickers to wear with the belly bulge is still with me - the whole under or over the bulge dilemma.

And then there was a long long design drought, when perfunctory took the place of pretty. These were the 'married years' and it's possible to argue that, as my lack of lace interest was on a par with his peel 'em off passion, the union was bound to fail.

But what a revelation my dating 30s were! Who knew there were so many different types of knickers?

It's difficult to understand how knicky-noos can confuse but French knickers were almost beyond me. I couldn't wear 'em under pants cos of they'd go all squishy-uppy and similarly you had to wear pantyhose under 'em and that was just yukky. Some smarty-pants women of course are able to manage stockings but when I tried them I spent a lot of time head-down-arse-up swivelling 'em up from around my ankles.  I had some pure silk frenchies that needed to be ironed and to be fair that was about as close as I got to being able to manage those suckers.

I spent a while trying to train myself up to desist from plucking the thread of a G-string out of my bum while waiting for a bus, and then decided that life was just too short and so too was the string.

I loved matching knickers and bras and co-ordinating a whole outfit. I called it dressing from the ground up.

Now in my fifties, I still want a little sexy something about my undies...yeh sure they are bigger than they were in my 30s. Oh who am I kidding, seriously a whole family could toggle a couple of pairs together and make a good sized tent, but I still want 'em to have a bit of something about 'em. I only buy black ones and they need to have a bit of lace - presumably as a throw back to those lovely 11 year old ones.

And being the knicker fascist that I am, Steve is only ever clad in black undies. I just hate those coloured saggy arsed 'old man' grundies.

Some might say that our washing line is indicative of a boring sad pair of gits, but you know what? I don't give a shit.

Yeh this is the washing line - black on black punctuated by pink
 
 
 
What would it take for you to push the boat out for new sexy somewhat uncomfortable undies?
 

Thursday, 16 July 2015

Internet Dating Vs Mr Darcy Dalliances



No I am not old enough to have given advice to Jane Austen about courtship rituals and no I am not on the hunt for a Steve replacement. I have however been privy to the antics of an internet dater recently so my account is well and truly third hand and as such open to all manner of corrections - please feel free to go your hardest.

Gone are the days of quiet courting with the requisite chaperone in full day light. Gone are the days of some young buck putting on his best shirt and fronting up to the Father and asking permission to 'step out' with the daughter. Gone are the days of long languid letters written on flash cards and embossed paper, penned in inky careful script, talking of love in metaphors and occasional somewhat risqué references to the possibility of perhaps at some point in the future, holding hands. Yeh I know it's all so old fashioned and sort of blurry and hazy and the palest of pale pink.

Today it's all, passwords, logins, and check messages. It's possible to scroll through a gizzilion pictures of possible suitors and click on the dozen or so that catch your eye and fire off some trite bit of a hello and hope for a response. Most of them are just rubbish and you have to develop quite the eye for fraudsters and dickheads and old men dressed up as youngsters or occasionally women.

And then through the mist a connection can be forged.

A second message, less formal than the first, or perhaps more open and honest, or a bit more personal or quirky, is opened, and an exchange begins.

Usually there is quite an online chat before any MIP (I think that is meet in person, or meet in public, or measure it's penis or something like that), and so you might think there is quite the Austen parallel with correspondence. But nowadays there is a little thing called SKYPE and instead of long chatty letters or abbreviated self corrected text messages, you just dial up and sit in front of your camera and chat away over a coffee, but in the safety of your own home.

Long before you actually get a sniff of their scent or feel the roughness of their hands, you know their dress sense and tone of voice and whether or not they keep a tidy house and are punctual. You know if they can carry on a conversation unprompted and if you are Skyping long enough I guess you find out a bit about their bladder control and sleeping habits.

This seems like an excellent plan! No danger! No need to get girlfriends to call you up with a pretend emergency to get you out of an horrendous first date disaster!



All sorts of important issues can be addressed in the comfort of your own lounge room and if you think it's all going pear shaped you can just not answer the Skype and ignore the messages, but if it's going well then you both can make a plan.

This too can be part of the dating ritual and if it goes off well, then the only thing left to be tested is that difficult to quantify attraction which relies on - who the fuck am I trying to kid? I have no idea what it relies on, except that we all know if it's there.

It seems so much smarted than downing a dozen voddies and sticking your tongue down the first throat you see. It seems so much smarted than trying to gauge the quality of  mate by what's in their Woolies trolley, or how many pull-up-lat-dangles they can do at the gym.

I reckon this internet dating thing might just be the way to go. Good luck!

Have you Skyped a stranger?
When was the last time you wrote a love letter?






Wednesday, 15 July 2015

Ebay selling.

Image result for ebay logoImage result for ebay logo

It's no secret that I do love a bargain and I have been hunting for shit online from EBay for a qvery long time. When Steve and I first got together, we bought a little flat at the Goldie that we wanted to rent out but first it needed to be furnished and all that stuff is just silly expensive and as it wasn't for me, and because it was possible, I just went online from London and bought stuff from EBay and it was all delivered easy peasy and then we arrived soon after settlement and we chucked it into place and hung a couple of piccies and called it done. All very painless!

And since then I have bought all sorts of stuff on eBay. Baby clothes and equipment, jewellery, furniture, art supplies, well anything and everything. It can get very exciting as you count down the last few minutes and up your bids to the pre set limits and then squeal with delight if you are the winner.

Sometime back we were cleaning up the garage and trying to chuck crap out and I was filling up the little Mazda and going the big HOIK at the humpity bump. It's a great little car which famously carried a full size bath while we were building the house, but there were a few things that just didn't fit in. So we were at a loss about how to get rid of 'em.

I photographed the bits of - to us - shit and posted it all up on EBay and crossed my fingers. Well it is clearly true - one man's trash is another man's treasure, as people came and took it all away and parted with cash for the pleasure of it. What a seriously fabulous system!!

So yesterday I was faced with Zig's sad face cos he didn't have enough money for some piece of tat he had his heart set on and that the lady in the shop had set aside for him. I know it's important that he gets a grip on where money comes from and that sliding him a sly tenner is not helping, so we talked about how he might make some cash and we settled on selling some of his toys that he no longer finds exciting.

Like many kids his room is like a Tardis, exploding with forgotten shit. He dug around like an archaeologist for a while and fronted with a couple of things he could live without and today I have popped 'em up to see how we go.

I do so hope that I am able to sell 'em, that someone will want to buy 'em and be prepared to pay for the postage too, cos Steve and Bell have said that I just can't give him the cash, although I don't see how it could hurt really, cos I have the goods and who is to say that I didn't want some Skylander figurines and Lego.

Yeh maybe I had better go and put in my best bid....and then I can say that it'll be Local Pick Up Only, and the Salvos will be pleased with the gear when I sneak it into my car and drop it off.



Tuesday, 14 July 2015

Volunteer Work - Sometimes it pays to pay people.



Almost 2 months ago I dragged on some decent clothes and put on a bit of lippy, grabbed my CV and some paperwork and trooped off for my first job interview in years. I was very excited.

There had been stories in the local paper about Kiwi kids being abandoned by their parents who had taken off back to NZ. Seems these kids had been left to fend for themselves....no money, no housing, no passports, no options but to take to the streets and that of course is always gonna end badly. I amn not gonna go into a rant about this so no need to hang onto your hats, suffice to say that the whole situation is FUCKED!

Close by to the story was an ad for volunteers to work with disadvantaged teens and it seemed like fate had stepped in to fill some of my spare time.

I feel strongly that we need to give our kids the best start possible, and I am pretty good with 'em, if I do say so myself. I find 'em entertaining and clever and interesting and therefore spending time with 'em is never a problem. I reckon too that 30 years of dealing with all sorts has armed me with a bit of a bullshit antennae which would be useful for dealing with street kids.

Anyway off I went. It appears that the Volunteer industry is a growth one. There is a middle man company that interviews and then sends details to the needy organisations. This was my first interview. It took an hour.

All my stuff was recorded and then I was told that it would be sent to the place that needed helpers and they would call me. But that didn't happen. SO weeks later I rang 'em and found out about this little oopsie.

A new appointment was sorted and then weeks later cancelled due to the woman having, 'a senior moment'.

SO then I finally decided that maybe this place wasn't for me. Seems that very often it is a better idea to pay people for their efforts so that they feel an obligation to get things right rather than feel good about themselves for doing something, anything, even if it is a bit shit.

It seems to me that the 'do gooder' lot would be advised to actually EMPLOY a couple of people who might source government funding or preferably private sponsorship and then go about finding folk to help. Whilst there is no rudder there can be very little directed progress. This is a perfect case of you get what you pay for.

The Volunteer sector is a glowing here on the Goldie - all these old people looking for something to do. But it seems to me that it's just taking the piss. Treating the volunteers like fools and then providing some sort of shit second rate service to people who by the sounds of it, could really do with some first rate help.

I had already decided that I wasn't gonna do a job that someone could reasonably expect to be paid for, cos that would just be adding to the unemployment problem, but there are things that need to be done that would not really be counted as a 'proper' job, and these need to be organised and sorted and monitored, and that administration is a 'proper' job and should definitely be filled by someone being paid to be efficient and effective.

There are plenty folk like me who have ability and availability. Wouldn't it be cool if this army of willing folk were respected and carefully sorted to help out.
 
Perhaps I am being a little negative.....Tomorrow is another day.
 

Saturday, 11 July 2015

Depression



 
I am a lucky bitch, cos whilst I have had a couple of bouts of cancer, I don't have depression.
 
 
When you have an ailment that people can see, that they somehow understand and find acceptable or terribly sad or that can make 'em feel good about themselves as they commiserate or make up some soup to pop in your freezer, you can feel loved and cared for.
 
 
I'm happy to admit that I found the soulful puppy dog face people get when you mention cancer more than a little off putting. We Elliotts have a generational habit of making fun of everything especially if the thing is shitful, cos I suppose we just reckon it's better if you can have a giggle rather than a cry. My darling Dad and I could often be found in the Chemo ward doing stand up as we waved our arms around like windmills trying to get a vein to behave and giving odds on how many digs the nurse would need to get a good jab. Patients laughed - their visitors perhaps with less gusto. I have made many perhaps inappropriate comments about slices of boob or tastes of chemo or recipes replacing puff pastry with stewed burn irradiated skin. Yeh gross I know, but anything to avoid those hang dog faces. And the shock value usually leaves me pretty unscathed, unless you count the announcement last time when a complete stranger thought it ok to give me a cuddle and a slobbery tonguey, odd enough if it was a bloke, but this came from an old woman who wanted me to remember that whatever happened I would still be a woman. Oh Dear! She wasn't laughing and neither was I as I wiped her saliva from my chin....Ohhhh yukky.
 
 
But none of this jovial silliness is possible with an 'I've got  Depression' announcement. Firstly cos if it is you who is making the announcement, you are probably not making an announcement and are definitely not up for making small talk let alone a joke, and secondly, cos the audience generally doesn't want to hear that cos they don't know how to react. There is no hang-dog look for the Depression announcement.
 
 
Depression is debilitating and lonely and almost impossible to describe or explain. It is recognisable to those on the outside looking in, but only if they know what they are looking at. Symptoms are probably as varied as the folk suffering through the shit.
 
I feel helpless when faced with someone's dive into the abyss. I worry and of course that is of absolutely no fucking good to 'em at all. This week courtesy of KERRI SACKVILLE I found this little flier which just might be helpful. If in the midst of depression you can manage just one or 2 of these things a day, then you can feel like a winner.
 
For those of us lucky enough NOT to suffer from depression then this list might look ridiculous, but I would say to the nonsufferer scoffers, 'Think how far down the hole would YOU be, if any of these activities seemed as impossible as a size 22 woman trying to shoe horn herself into a size 4 pair of skinny jeans.'
 
 
 
 
 
 
I really hope that this little list up on the fridge can give hope to our friends who are in that dark place.
 
If I thought it would help I would build a kissing booth and stick the tongue in, but I fear that would just add to the tension.

Chris K, I am very very sorry for your loss this week. xx

Friday, 10 July 2015

Oh Shit ...I am a NIMBY



There's been a lot of scuttle about the village lately about a new development just across the road.

I always thought I embrace change. I enjoy new things and find making a new way pretty exciting. This might explain why I have lived in more than a dozen houses in the last 15 years. Moving house is of course a pain in the arse, but it's also exiting and an excellent excuse to chuck out all manner of shit - yeh I am not a natural hoarder.

But the news about some rather shit sounding development across the road fills me with dread, and not just cos it'll be noisey and messy for a very fucking long time, but because I don't want to live across from hundreds of people instead of just 8 households. I really bloody don't.

Actual information about the prospective market for the 89 or is it 105 flats or flatettes is very hard to come by. The developers just want to gather permissions from Council and then I guess we will find out the whos and the whens and the whys.

The plans are for 105 flats over 3 floors. The average size of the flats is 50square metres. They are either 1 bedroom or studios and there are 5, 2 bed flats. There are 2 lifts and there is underground parking for 110 cars. There is a communal kitchen and a pool and a gym room and what seems to be a movie room.

A development Board went up today and I have just 3 weeks to put in an objection, if in deed I do object. I just can't decide how much of a NIMBY ( Not in My Back Yard) I wanna be.

So my question to you is this...Who do you reckon is gonna move in? I have stopped wondering about who is gonna BUY 'em, cos I reckon almost certainly they are gonna be rented out.

Would you wanna live across the skinny suburban road from 100s of people who were not there when you bought your home?

Go on - tell me I am being a dick and to mind my own business - I can take it.

Thursday, 9 July 2015

Put-Put golf mini holiday


The 'Kids' have been down for a mini-break during the hols and what a hoot it has been. All manner of silliness and lashings of food - all food groups included, but especially the Ma one - SUGAR.

We did a spot of jeans shopping where thanks to Lifestyle Fifties Jo Castro, Bell picked up a pair of black denim jeans at Millers. I mean really who knew right? Millers have all sorts of clothes, even skinny jeans for a young hip woman.

Then we were off to the playground at Southport parklands, which is Zig's favourite. Bell and I chattered away, while he made quick new friends and was lucky enough to come away with no broken bits. Yep boys were boys and so were many of the girls. There was plenty of rough and tumble and chasey and flinging on top of each other, so really it was a wonder that the there was only one busted thumb. We figured it was buggered cos the kids was crying and his thumb was blue and pointing south instead of north. We did a runner before the parking machine sent up a flare to the ticket bloke indicating that we were law breakers in need of expensive painful punishment.

We ate enormous steaks courtesy of the BBQ master. I'd made jacket spuds and some damn fine mushroom sauce cos that's everyones favourite, and we all pushed around a bit of lettuce and tomato just to pretend that we had balanced the plates.

Now there is not a lot of tellie watching at Bell's place, but there was no way the Stage of Oranges' was gonna be silenced. Bell had a long bath - Bliss, except for the screams of delight and rumblings of 'QUEENSLANDER' and 'GO MOROONS'. Zig was just falling about laughing watching 2 old foggies roaring and clapping and laughing. He joined in soon enough and was a sight to behold as he cheered on a team of blokes he didn't know nor care about.  You just have to love the footy.

Today we found KING TUT'S Put Put Golf and the laughter propelled us around the outdoor course of 18 laid back Zen and Budda holes and again through the indoor History lesson.

We don't mind making a noise. People stared. We just didn't give a shit. There was very loud yahooing when someone got a hole-in-one and occasionally when one of us - well ZIG really, belted the shit out of the ball and we all had to duck for cover. Bell played a combo of golf-hockey-snooker and managed to get 2 holes-in-one but sometimes her avante guard approach meant accuracy was less than perfect ( read wild and a little shithouse). Zig played well and then he didn't - he liked winning and didn't like it so much when he didn't - ho hum. Steve played very well, and was the overall winner. He gave out good advice and helped me with the angles and stuff and was especially gallant putting himself in harm's way when I could see bugger all and I was just taking wild swings. He's quite lucky to still have all his teeth.

It was great fun.

I do so love having these 2 visit. They fill the house with noise and laughter and mess. Dog is broken and Steve and I are now just kicking back planning some take-away for dinner and a bit of a feet-up.

When are the next school holidays?

Do you love 'em or hate 'em

Wednesday, 8 July 2015

Only Sluts Wear Red Shoes???

Newest 'Dorothy' shoes.
Red Birks- worn every day for months.
Walking shoes.
Second pair of these, the first pair literally fell to bits.
 
My days of the 'Come fuck me heels' are blessedly but a dim memory, though I do believe somewhere in the archive of shoes there is a pair of bright red patent leather high heeled sandals which have been worn only a couple of times and that was a long time ago, but not long enough ago for the painful memory to have completely evapourated.
 
Anyway I was struck today that certainly for the last dozen or so years, RED has been the colour of choice for me, and as it struck me, I remembered the old woman chanting that, 'Only sluts wear red shoes.'
 
I wear a lot of black in the summer and the winter so a pair of bright red shoes just adds a bit of colour. 
 
The red shoes that I am drawn to match just about everything I own, including handies and hats.
 
A while back I bought a pair of green / blue shoes that I thought might be good to take to London later in the year, but as luck would have it they left enormous blisters and luckier still the shop agreed to take 'em back. SO I swapped 'em for ....you guessed it, a RED pair. They are very comfy and fun.
 
I wonder why the old woman would have ever considered a connection between red shoes and sluts. If I went into an explanation too deeply it would probably give griste to the nutso doctor profile  mill, so I'm not gonna bother.
 
I always thought a good definition for a slut was someone, male or female, who was having more sex than me, so now I am gonna go forth and start counting up all the red shoe wearing people I see and as I pass 'em, I will toff my imaginary hat and congratulate 'em. 'Good on ya,' I'll think, 'Go forth and bonk your brains out.'
 
There's plenty of time to slide into boring old people shoes, in the mean time live it up.
 
Do you wonder about the origins of old sayings?
 
Did your parents say stuff that still influences your choices as adults?