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.)

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.

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….

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.

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!