…completely lost my voice – like now – partner and 4yo still feel the need to conduct their conversations THROUGH me.

Sitting in the dinky caf in Myer at Highpoint on the weekend I was quietly sipping my coke and snaffling up 3yo gossip about Liza Minelli’s weird looking ex-husband between questions being fired at me from both sides by partner who was sipping his coffee and child who was sipping her apple juice.

After one too many interruptions, I suddenly snapped “WHY can’t you two just TALK amongst YOURSELVES for a change? Can you not SEE I am reading something of IMPORTANCE here???”

And they looked at each other like it was the most novel concept that had never occurred to them. Like maybe I shoulda been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize over Obama.

My 4yo looked at me and said “You want me I talk to Daddy???? Not you???”

It’s not that they can’t communicate. They talk incessantly when I’m not around. But the moment I enter the building I suddenly have to become the conduit facilitating their inane natterings.

I love ‘em to death but seriously. SOMEONE STOP THE INANITY!

And yet today they continued to do it with my daughter telling me I just needed to “cough up da frog dat flew in your throat. Go on. Cough. Like dis…cough cough, snaffle, harumph….”

Even at work while I was driving I had to drive the conversation between two nuff nuffs sounding like a very froggy Kathleen Turner. And it was me who agreed to chauffeur them around after some begging and they couldn’t even entertain me with some show tunes.

Ingrates.

I know I’m the centre of the universe, but please, go on, talk amongst yourselves. I’ll just be in the corner reading a 7yo copy of Dolly.

As the weeks whiz by, my photo sitting is rapidly approaching and I’m yet to even turn my mind to the sort of theme I’m going to go with. Mainly because I hate, hate, hate having my photo taken.

What would I like it to say about me? What do I want it to project? 

Based on the photographs from the website, cowgirl hat, boots and bullwhip aren’t exactly where I’m coming from and nor is the whole 80’s, boofhead Tawny Kitaen look either.

And I’m really struggling to imagine how I will look any better than this candid, “easy like Sunday” arvo pic. It’s a dinky, untouched photo my partner caught of me on his iphone a couple of weeks ago in a languorous moment after a day at the Polish Festival (that’s a flag on my cheek, not zinc) followed by sun-loving at our local beach.

I look at this and like what it projects – apart from the fact that I’m clearly (yet unwittingly) re-enacting the scene on my masthead.

My easy smile. My love of summer in Melbourne and my proclivity for cat-like lounging around in the sun. My love of the beach. My occasional devil-may-care attitude. Plus it highlights physical traits of mine I actually like – such a difficult thing for a female post childbirth.

Number 1 is my skin and decolletage. Number 2 are my shoulders, strong and muscular from my years of synchronised swimming and swimming squad in addition to recent iron pumping. And number 3 is all of my extremities, which, whilst not present in the pic, are positive things I know to be true in my head. My hands are particularly strong, bony and sinewy with elegant veins that tell me I should have played piano. I have feet made for sandals and high heels, having modelled very briefly in my very distant past. It was very much a George Costanza moment.

It’s all the bits between my knees and my ribs I have issue with. All those bits that are thanking the fashionistas this year for the emergence of the maxi dress.  A maxi dress works for me cos all those bits that are exposed are exquisite enough, no-one asks what’s underneath. Or at least I have deluded myself into believing as much and that’s all that matters.

So tell me, exactly how do you think I should gussy myself up for the “photoshoot”? Which of these looks would you choose?

Au naturel with just chapstick channeling Martina Navratilova and Steve Irwin, cos while cows don’t interest me, I will do safari:

Photoshopped onto Lynda Carter’s body, cos everyone wants to be Wonder Woman at some stage:

Parading my guns:

Or just follow the path of another green-eyed brunette? Worked for her:

Any other suggestions?

It’s interesting the way the sexes will look at a music video and see completely different things.

Partner and I watched this video from Jack White’s new outfit, the Dead Weather, here:

She:  God, look at that suburban wasteland. That could be anywhere.
He:  …
She:  It looks just like Deer Park or St Albans. Obviously all suburban wastelands look exactly the same.
He:  Hmmm…
She:  I like the whole pistols at dawn theme, but between a woman and a man. Equally ripping each other to shreds. No pussy crap where the chick can’t handle her piece, or trips over at the crucial moment or gives in cos she’s all so feminine and shit. I reckon I’d be a straight shooter.
He:  Hmmmm…
She:  And you’d be a goner
He:  …
She:  I like her sunglasses and jacket…
He:  …
She:  So you like the video?
He:  I like her gun.
She:  (Frowns) Huh?
He:  Much better quality.
She & He:  …
He:   She’s packin’ an MP-5 by Heckler & Koch, fires 9mm.
She:  (Looks at the gun. Looks at him) …
He:  (Looks at her and raises his eyebrows)  That’s a commando gun.
She:  (Thinking  ‘All that wasted brain space’)
He:  (Big smiles. He is seriously enjoying this.)
She:  (Still thinking… ‘All those brain cells he dedicates to his love of artillery…he could probably find a cure for HIV…’)
He:   He’s got a Colt Commando – a cut down M16, fires 5.56 mm.
She:  (Wryly) You don’t say?
He:  Yup.  She wins hands down. Much better quality. Noice…
She & He:  (Watching it through til the final scene)
He:  Coool…I like the bullet holes…
She:  Hmmm….me too…(but glad we live in a country with fisharse tight gun control laws cos I’m positive I’d wake up one night with a gun to my head “just for kicks”)

Some of the scariest words you can hear when you answer the phone are:

“Hi Melanie. I have great news for you. Do you remember entering a competition for a glamour photography shoot?”

Actually, no, I don’t. But I do remember my partner telling me he entered me about 4 or 5 times and that “When you win, it better be ALL booby shots.”

“Well, you’ve won!”

Hmmm…I’m guessing I haven’t actually won shit, but what the hell. I’m happy to be primped and preened and wined and encouraged to spill my cleavage just for the trade off of wondering what the hell I would look like all Alexis Carrington in Dynasty. I could never stand insipid wet rag, Krystal.

According to the shots on their website they really are THAT bad.

UPDATE:  Due to popular demand, I link for your viewing pleasure said website.

I can’t seem to link straight to the photos, but click on “Photographic” in the side menu, then “Glamour” in the sub menu and then “Glamour” again, cos everyone knows too much glamour is never enough.

I don’t quite get why the whole SA Premier Mike Rann/Michelle Chantelois affair is making headlines; it irritates me the way the media insist on reporting a story that isn’t actually a story.

I guess in the same way people were intrigued to know the ins and outs of Monica and Bill’s trysts in the Oval Office, people are curious to know how a boring, middle-aged politician gets to root around with a younger, attractive, married American barmaid. But is it really newsworthy?

It’s not as if there are any allegations that he somehow misled Parliament. There are no allegations that he missed important meetings to get laid by the barmaid. From my understanding all their alleged meetings took place after hours, in his own time. And big fucking deal if she was married – that’s her problem. Whether or not you fall on the side of believing it was right or wrong, it wasn’t illegal.

Seems if you’re a politician you can actively lie about children being thrown overboard or the reasons for having an intervention in the Northern Territory without fear of being questioned or hounded by the media or the public, but you better not fuck around in your own time!

So where’s the story? Or are we in for a morality lesson courtesy of a bashing round the head with a rolled up magazine?

I’m currently in the market for a DSLR camera for business purposes and looking at the Nikon D90 - like everyone else it seems.

My homework has involved speaking with photographer friends, visiting camera stores and surfing the net for reviews but finding it a frustrating process. Said acquaintances have been surprisingly unhelpful and the nameless, faceless reviewers on the net don’t construct sentences that make any goddamned sense! 

Does anyone out there know their stuff re: digital SLR cameras? If so, do you have any information on this model or ideas on other brands/models that offer better value for money?

Any advice appreciated.

When do people stop remembering how old they are? And do they genuinely forget or is it a subconscious (or conscious) avoidance of the ageing process?

Last night while I was resting my head on my partner’s shoulder, surfing that blissful moment between awakeness and slumber, I  mumbled “Am I 36 or 37?”

Apparently I spill all sorts of crazy lady talk in those few minutes of stillness and he usually indulges me by having a little giggle to himself until I completely crash and leave him to fall asleep.

But on this occasion the dawning realisation hit me that I did not know how old I was and the thought shot through me “Holy hell! I’ve lost a year! How do I get it back??” I literally woke myself up, raising my head, saying “Shit. How old am I?”

The fact that he then looked at me like a deer in the headlights before rolling his eyes in any direction but mine to try and speed up his thought processes made me think “Am I 38? Don’t tell me I’m 38???? If I’m 38 I’m gonna be 40 soon…”

Then he said “I’m going to be 35 next year so you must be 36 now. Ahh…I….think…”

I’m 36. I think.

I just counted the number of single socks sitting atop my daughter’s drawer waiting for their partner to arrive and it pains me to say that it’s 34.

Playing card games like Concentration and Fish as a child, it never occurred to me that they would have any applicable purpose in my adult life.  I never excelled at these games, lacking the concentration for simple activities. I preferred draughts, Chinese checkers and chess. Seems I was really only interested if I could theoretically imprison or kill someone. Hence, I truly believe that this is why I am absolutely lousy at pairing my daughter’s socks.

What am I to do with 34 unpaired socks? Why does she have so many damn socks? How could I allow myself to buy so many? Actually I have the same problem with earrings. I am just unable to keep them together. They’re all over the place.  

And I am currently sitting on the net wasting time to avoid trying to pair all the shit in my life that has separated from their significant others. Knowing that my partner is right at this very moment off at a kids party with our daughter and most likely reading this post on his iphone, thinking “What the hell is she doing? She should be doing the washing!” and then laughing cos he knows he gets sucked in to doing all the kids parties and yet, sucker that he is, he wouldn’t have it any other way. Cos he’s shit at pairing too.

I’m just not sure this life is for me. All the organisation that goes with being in a relationship and looking after children – all the crap you collect along the way and somehow have to put it all in its place – it’s just not naturally me.

And I struggle.

Massively.

But I try.

And I’m shit.

But, I promise, I try.

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…

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.)