Girl Power

As a kid most of my favourite songs came from television advertisements.

My mum would constantly remind me that as a 3-year-old, I would sing with great enthusiasm and feeling to a particular song to the point that she actually thought I truly “felt” and “lived” the lyrics – at some point – maybe in a previous life? Maybe at kindie? She really wasn’t all that sure.

I think it may have been advertising Jex.

The song was ”Me & Mrs Jones”. 

Can’t really say having an affair with a married woman is something I’ve experienced. Yet….

And I’m not sure why it appealed to me as much as it did. The ad was about cleaning products. And the music wasn’t exactly upbeat a la the Wiggles. Seems I was laidback even as a toddler. 

My daughter on the other hand, does not carry that gene and is completely influenced by upbeat songs on the radio.

“ALL DA thiNGLE LADIESTH…all da thingle ladiesth…put your handsth UP! Uh-oh OH! Uh-oh oh…Uh-oh oh oh oh oh…uh-oh oh, uh-oh oh, uh-oh oh uh-uh oh…”

and…

“Ah kissed da girl n’ ah layked it…ah hmm ma boyfren hmm mah mah it…ah kissed da girl n’ ah layked it…ma hmm ma mmmm mnn no nnn nah nah…”

Hmmm…maybe there is a theme here…

Breview #2 – ‘The Witches of Eastwick’ by John Updike

My first taste of John Updike, I was enchanted by his bewitching prose. Friends have avoided Updike due to perceived misogyny but I felt he was equally scathing of both sexes here. Perfect for a book group debate as its themes have since bubble-bubbled, toiled and troubled my weary head.

(I can’t believe it took me nearly a year to write another brief book review!  It’s actually really hard to limit yourself to 50 words or less, but I still argue it’s more than enough. Back on track now, more to come. If I can be stuffed… And yes, I know it’s a sin to include a pic from the movie, particularly when it differs so dramatically from the book but  elements of the photo touch on the book in ways the movie never really did. So there you go.)

Sea Gates

I have walked past this place on the Strand in Williamstown a gazillion times and each time a much needed sense of calm and tranquility courses through me like honey. Anyone and everyone who’s ever walked with me chants “Yes, yes, we know. That’s your house, Mel…”

Something about the place just stirs a desire for simple living by the sea with a rambling garden for scores and scores of orphaned children and lost dogs home pups to run around in and the added benefit of having one Mr Rex Harrison living in the attic. How I loved thee, Captain Daniel Gregg.

So it was with great surprise and excitement that I walked past the other week to see a tiny “For Sale” sign out the front.

My moment has finally come. Check it out. You will see there is just so much to love about it.

There’s been a lot of chatter round these parts about what will happen to the place with the general consensus being that it would be an absolute tragedy if some gauche developer came along and turned it into a dozen pieces of shit as many lovely old places have been along that stretch.

So, if anyone out there is feeling quite charitable and has a cool $8 million to spare I would be ever so grateful. I’m a terribly good cause - ask anyone.  I’ll make you my bitchin’ Hummingbird Cake – totally worth 8 mill.

Turning A Corner

Yesterday I had the misfortune to be walking up an intimate Melbourne CBD side street at the exact same time a couple of people from my past were walking in the opposite direction.

I was off with the fairies with thoughts of holiday destinations involving sun-loving, cossie wearing days capped off with seafood dining evenings getting drunk on wine and margaritas on the porch of our beach house listening to the hypnotic sound of lapping waves. I was in the middle of dreaming about swimming in the ocean when I crashed back to reality and noticed them about 5 metres away from me, at which point it would have been way too obvious to change direction or cross the road. I just had to grin and bear it and assume they wouldn’t have had the presence of mind to even notice me at all given I was walking behind two 20 something goddesses in all their cleavage revealing, big hair, fake tan wonderfulness.

Sometimes I thank the lord for Ice Queens!

I had imagined this day might come, but had always assumed I couldn’t possibly be so unlucky in one year. And I have to smile to myself, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that things can always get worse – and most likely, they will.

What I didn’t anticipate was exactly how the moment would make me feel. My heart raced so fast that I suddenly became deaf and I forgot to breathe. I thanked god I was wearing sunglasses so that I at least had some anonymity and some way of belying what was going through my head. Why is it we can’t stand for someone to read our thoughts? Surely they would know I would feel this way? Why does it matter to me what they think? Why does it matter to me what somebody who  made threats against my life (which I reported to the Police) and the other person who so totally hung me out to dry, would actually think?

I’m fairly certain one noticed me and the feeling in the pit of my stomach as their hand swung nearly 5cm away from my own was utterly gruelling. I felt sick as he looked at me with what appeared to be surprise and bewilderment. I broke out in a sweat. I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest and beat its last few pumps on the pavement in front of me.

But I kept my head and endured those seconds that felt like hours.

And then I suddenly became angry. And pissed off. And I thought ”Fuck em’!” 

I raised my head, continuing on at my usual pace, walking on and not looking back. Breathing, unclenching my fists and enduring those tremors resulting from the adrenalin, I walked on as if nothing had happened until I hit Hardware Lane and turned the corner.

I reached for my mobile phone to call my partner, but realised I couldn’t call him because my hands were totally incapable of dialling his number – or any number for that matter.

All I could do was walk it out until I got back to work.

I dunno what the moral of the story is. Certainly they would have their own opinions on that which they can shove up their collective arsehole. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and I think certainly that is true to the extent that as I get older I seem to be able to endure more and more creative forms of torture. But at least that hump’s outta the way now.

Back to thinking about sun-kissed holiday destinations….

Sunkissed

Whenever I see this photo my uterus goes off on a frustrating little frolic of its own, jumping up and down and screaming for a new occupant. This is my 14 month old squidgy, pudgy mass of sugar and spice and all things nice with her copper pigtails and sausage legs. I love the  way she’s holding onto his fingers trying to keep up, but intently concentrating on her steps at the same time.

And here she is re-enacting the scene with her dad at Queenscliff yesterday at 4 years old. It’s interesting to observe her grabbing his hand and confidently leading him to the water now, whilst knowing at the same time she’s still a “Daddy’s girl” through and through and she still calls on him to carry her 23kg heft when she gets tired.

Music My Mum Mortified Me With as a Kid But Which I’m Now Growing Into #1

As a kid, for years and years, the running joke between my parents was that according to my mum, Tom Jones was God’s gift to women, whilst my dad figured Tom was God’s gift to men who happened to be that way inclined.

As a 3 year old, this was a very early lesson in the sexual politics of the married couple. Woman expresses her wanton desires for certain masculine types. Male challenges the masculinity of said masculine types, inferring she lacked the equipment to satisfy said  ”>masuline type’s desires.  Woman points out fake breasts of certain feminine types in “those magazines we shant name.” Male points out sausage down trousers. And so it goes on and on…

Nevertheless, Mum adored Tom Jones and as a child in the days before Youtube and the days before concerts from the 60’s were released on video, I never really had much knowledge of Tom Jones beyond his remarkable voice or beyond the covers of his LP’s. Like this one…

Aaaahh, he’s fond of purple cloth, sandals and wine. Or this ill-informed pose of what appears to be Tom doing an atomic fart…

By the time I was old enough to understand what she was fussing about, he was covering Prince’s “Kiss” and dancing very badly.  And I remember saying to her “What did you really see in him? I don’t get it.” She’d reply “Oh you dont understand. Back in the day…”

So I recently did some investigating and I have to say to all the knockers out there you must check this out and tell me if I’m delusional or not.

The guy could moooooove. That gorgeous face. Those lips. Strong shoulders. That roman nose. Those wicked eyes. That voice. And that devilish swagger. He must have been absolutely rolling in it. just look at those women creaming their pants. My god. 

Mummy dearest, you were right. He was so damn hawt at this exact time. I think he may have been so hot to trot that he could possibly have been able to keep up with me. And yes, though I know you saw him first, I would certainly lock him up in a cage and have him go-go dance for me.

Why has the concept of men go-go dancing in a cage never taken off? Oh it has? Really? I’ve never seen it. Oh. Riiiiiiggghhht…I see… Those clubs that tell me”‘Sorry dear, members only tonight.”

Pffftt…

Go Tom!

It’s About the Journey, Man

I initially fell into blogging when I had a blogger account to comment on the blogs of friends I had in “real life”.

When said friends would harass me to write my own blog, I would say “Get oooouuuuutttt. I’m not a writer. I’m visual. I paint. And create ‘n’ stuff… I could never explain myself in words the way I do with images.”

(Totally irrelevant to mention we are no longer friends. Only taking the opportunity to say “Hi Regina and Janis! Fickle fuckers….”)

And yet, just pre and post baby, the words flowed. It was an outlet.

I only recently looked at my archives on my old blog and thought “Geez. I don’t know or remember this person. Sometimes she was even quite clever with the words she chose and her sentence construction was occasionally a little inspired. And sometimes she was pretty shithouse too…”

I am surprised by the content of these posts in my archives, most particularly what I considered to be blogworthy.

Lordy, the utter mundanity of it all!

I can see that I occasionally somehow managed to make it kinda sorta (well maybe not all that) interesting, but yeah, surprised anyone else read it or found it vaguely palatable.

Most intriguing of all are the mental cues, the little signposts I planted here and there to remind me of the real stuff that was happening at the time. The truth being stranger than fiction stuff. The shit I would go down for in a blaze of glory should anyone I know ever read this blog. The stuff I never would have dreamed of writing about. All the incredible mother fucking dramas. Dramas I will never be able to forget, but strangely, dramas I can only place on some sort of timeline when I read particular posts about the day-in-day-out- living-in-sin-raising kids-working-for-the-man drudgery of everyday life.  I aint no diarist and without the blog it would sit in a  big glug in my brain with no real points of reference to put it all in context.

Aaaahhh…memories…

What was your initial reason for blogging and has your journey changed direction over the years?

Random Conversation #50

In the context of discussing the controversy around the Dwarf Jockey Race at the Cranbourne Cup.

She: It always annoyed me how people call midgets “dwarves” and vice versa. There’s a clear distinction between the two. A midget is nothing like a dwarf.
He: Dwarves have regular trunks, whereas midgets are just little people.
She: Exactly.
He: They’re sposed to be ‘normal’ down there as well.
She: Well, legend has it males are well endowed…
He: Really?
She: Yeah. Toulouse-Lautrec. And others.  But I would say it just looks bigger in proportion to the rest of their body.
He: Aaah…I see. Reasonable assumption, I guess.
She: (Raises a conspiratorial eyebrow).
He: (Does a  double take) What? What does that mean?
She: (walking away from the conversation for a toilet break and gives him one last “knowing” glance before she turns the corner)
He: (Shouts around the corner) Are you saying you know from personal experience????
She: ….
He: (drops knife and spins round from the kitchen counter quicker than you can say “tall lady and person of short stature gettin’ it on” and runs to the bathroom and kicks down the door)
She: (Underwear around knees and hovering at a 45 degree angle above the toilet seat) Do you MIND???
He: (Smiling) You did a dwarf? When? Who was he? When? You did a dwarf? When? Where? Who was he? Oh my god… When was this? What was his name? Where was it? Wow…You did a dwarf???
She: Do you MIND? A little privacy maybe?
He: Ok. OK, yeah, yeah, yeah… (closes door with an inch to spare and sneaks a look in…what can I say? The guy is weird) So come on, answer the question!
She: Wouldn’t you like to know????

Cake Porn #2

I dunno why but a whole stack of people are reaching this blog doing a google search for “cake porn”.  The mind just boggles as to what it is they are actually looking for.

They then immediately appear to leave on noticing it’s not choc full of coconut covered rum balls or custard oozing cannoli’s or buttered muffins or cream covered peach cobbler or nipple shaped petit fours. And then I wondered, maybe this what they’re looking for:

Cos maybe then I’d understand.

Just out of curiosity go ahead and tell me, why “cake porn”.

My Partner is Determined to Turn My Child Into a Geek

My partner txted me this image today while he was out with my daughter having one of their Daddy/Daughter days. 

I can see her thought processes in action:

“Who is this blue woman? Why is her head smaller than mine? I think she’s gonna eat me. Daddy, are you seriously gonna take a photo of her eating me? Is that white thing the rubbish bin? I need to throw this booger on my finger out…it’s a pretty big one… Maybe she’ll eat that instead? Maybe I should just give it to her? Mummy? Are you out there? Please save me from these geeks…you’re my only hope.”

When she got home I asked her what the blue lady’s name was and she said with absolute certainty “Fartagun”.

I am not familiar with Star Wars at all so I have no idea who she is but it would not surprise me if her name is, in fact, Fartagun. 

My partner is a geek in many ways and is quite freakish in the collection of information he stores in his brain, but he’s very selective in his geekdom. Black Hawk Down? Yes. Star Wars? No.

And so we are left wondering…is this lady really Fartagun?