Sweat.

So, Sydney, it's going to be like this, is it? So soon and with so little changing of the seasons? I don't think I can move another 2000 or so kilometres south and still make land so don't make me have to try. Pull your socks up and move away from the sun. This isn't really a relationship I'm ready to end but I'm getting mightily sick of your attitude. You have been warned.

Every other day of the week is fine, yeah.

I don’t know if it’s hormones, pheromones, the Australian taxation system, the fact that I drank too much last night, the heat, or a whole messy combination of the above but I don’t really think I could get more emotional if I tried. Not just emotional but anxious and so thoroughly neurotic that I feel as though my head and chest and arms (I don’t know why arms) are all going to explode. The best thing anybody could do for right now is to make me a cup of tea and make the whole rest of the world go away – possibly forever or, at least, until I next want the world to exist. If you know how to do this then please contact me and tell me.

If anybody wants me I shall be firmly inside the asylum, I’ve lost the keys to escape, and am busy winding tape around my head to prevent it from exploding.

Brought to you by the phrase 'Fuck me'

I want to write something and I keep trying to write it - something semi-decent and not quite so daily planner - but it won't flow despite how I chip at it and hammer it and scream and cry at it. Literary frustration is every bit as bad as sexual frustration and it's beyond cruel to suffer them simultaneously.

In which the author comes over a little bit Germaine Greer, a little bit Carry On, and a whole lot of things that can't be put into a title...

I almost did a Weather Woman at work the other day but then I got too disturbed by my surroundings to go ahead.

Working alone with two boys under 25 is playing havoc with my, er, hormones. It really is becoming quite painful. It is kinda cute, though, that they haven't worked out why I'm such a filthy tempered, snappy bitch. Or else they have and they're being cruel. Oh fuck, I hate boys in close proximity who can't be mauled at will!

Sometimes...

...I think that my childhood really was incredibly deviant. It's not even like my parents were hippies or in a cult or lived any kind of alternative lifestyle.

You are a gimboid.

It's going to kill me to vote for you.

It's pronounced in-fruh-struhk-cher. Check how you pronounce nuclear too, dangerously Dubya territory that.

And then I thought some.

I was sitting here feeling all sorry for myself about having done not very much this weekend. You know lack of accomplishment kills me – this is why I am a loser with a capital ‘l’ – capitals in titles always make things look more impressive. Anyway, pan to my sitting here, frumpy, hair unwashed, in trackies [oh shut up], and wasting time feeling sorry for myself because I got too tired to finish the cleaning and have left the flat looking like something exploded [one more Saturday shift and I will but that’s a whole other story]. And then I sat here and thought about what I’ve actually done today. Hell, I got up before midday on a Monday – that’s my Sunday, before midday, awake, me! That possibly makes more of an impression on the people who know what a champion sleeper I am. I also kicked the arses of some tasks that have been waiting months or years for me to get ‘round to. I’m actually getting my tax done this year – I made an actual appointment – my sister, frequently unbearable as older sisters so often are, has been absolutely hideous since she started working for the tax office and would have been positively grotesque if I’d left it another year. I do believe that she goes out of her way to find things to nag me about. Like a mother only three years older than me and able to punch like a man [this is what happens when men don’t have sons – they teach their little princesses to hit – hard]. Making appointments is quite hard work that was the beginning of the end really. After that I phoned the bank to, ah, sort out my finances. Ah, fools, ever willing to bail me out – unlike my parents – and with a lesser rate of interest. That was an entertaining conversation largely because I didn’t know that I could do virtually everything over the phone and because I managed to sound like a fuckwit on several occasions. For example, on being asked how much I grossed etc I had to reply that I didn’t actually know – this was made marginally better by the fact that I don’t know because I’ve just gotten a pay rise [yes, Rins, pick yourself up off the floor] and I have yet to discover exactly how much money I’ll lose in tax HECS etc. Also, me and basic calculations? Surely you jest! I also couldn’t name my real estate agents. Hey, I can’t remember everything now, can I?

Aside from this too-exciting too-much information, oh wait, I’m continuing with the too much information, I’ve managed to wash the dust and aviation fuel of the better part of thirty years from the rather decrepit Venetians, sort out the books, launder everything – except for that one towel [blue] that I accidentally mistook for the carpet [brown], and, um, sit around and stuff. I also bought baby shower stuff which was every bit as trying as it was tiring. Quickly, is there etiquette for a baby shower that I ought to know about? I’m guessing abortion and disabilities are well out…and dying young, of course. Oh crap, it was easier when we were having an unofficial family feud – then I just didn’t get invited to the birthdays and baby showers and fuck only knows what. Still, you know, family…*cries*

Now I’m running out of time and energy, I really must reserve some energy else I’ll have to sleep on bare mattress. Very uncivilised.

Oh shit, the washing!

I suddenly understand what Lucy means...

This wind is pissing me off. I'm tired, I do not have the energy to do anything else, think Sunday evening for normal people, and I want to sit dawn, watch tv and maybe eat some Thai food. I cannot get any fucking reception because of this damned wind. It's making me very cranky.

Spring?

The house is actually messier than when I started cleaning. But I am too tired to continue. Have I reached the age of needing daily Nana naps already?

Shit, eh?

The pile of unread/unfinished books reaches to my hip. MY HIP. I'm not exactly a midget either. Guess who has some reading to do? And a new bookshelf to buy (/convince my parents to buy for me)? The books are about two deep on the shelves. I'm also getting rid of doubles and some books that I positively loathed. And there are some I'm lending to a friend.
I think maybe it's time I stopped buying books and just joined a library.

Honestly.

There's already a pile of unreads up past my knee - when standing. Why do I own these books? What was I thinking? Roughly when, exactly, did I think I was going to get the urge read Oroonoko? And why is it in such a huge volume? Has anyone ever actually read Oroonoko?
Still, at least I've never even cracked that one. Turns out I never did finish reading Frankenstein. The ending that I seem to remember must have some from one of the movies. Oh dear.
I think it would be best if I eventually had a child - just so that my children's book collection doesn't go to waste. Well, maybe my nephew can have them when I die. He should be sufficiently grown up by then not to ruin my books.
Another thought: doing first year twice was, possibly, quite a shitty idea. I have first year (and second year?) psychology books, first year English books (almost always crap, why is that?), first (and second and third) year politics books - miscellaneous politics books, too much John Ralston Saul, first year linguistics, and I'm pretty sure there are others but I can't think. Somewhere along the line I've misplaced my first year anthropology which is a great pity as I remember that being a great read. Ooooh The Prince! With so many unreads I must not give into the temptation to read it again.
I am getting slightly concerned with the attrition rate of George Orwell. I now have only Paris and London left. This makes me massively shitty. I love Orwell, I want my Orwell back! What the hell happened to my copy of Homage? You know I love the Spanish Civil War - that sounds bad but it is massively fascinating, do admit. Still, if I had it I'd only have to read it yet again.

Fuck I need more shelf space!

Things to make and do (mostly do).

I have big plans for my bookshelf. I plan to move all the books and dust them and then order them into the piles of read and bought-with-good-intentions-but-not-yet-read. There are some real gems among the unread. I recently discovered one that had sat beside my bed for two years. It is called ‘The Lady’s Realm’ and I have half written a post on its wonders and it is very wonderful. You know that if I ever finish that post it’ll be great – I’ve named it ‘Kerwallops’ which ought to give you a clue about how I feel about this book. Still, it is but one of many books sitting around waiting to be dusted and sorted and left in little piles all over my house once the meagre bookshelf space has run out. I could really use another bookshelf or two. Maybe tall ones this time – I am getting too old to be crawling about on the floor when I want to find a book. And maybe even one with a cupboardy bit at the bottom. Then I could, perhaps, sort my books into sensible categories like children’s books, politics, things that make me look intellectual (I shall display these quite prominently), and things that must be hidden behind something in a cupboard because they’re appalling trash and I ought not to love them as much as I do. Then again, think how many books I could buy for the price of a bookshelf!

Really, I must go and clean. I must. No, really, stop it, I must go now.

Such a worshipper!

I have a crush on these eyebrows.

Actually, the rest of him ain't bad either.

[Oh shut up already.]

Cups of tea.

I need to do something to sort out the quiet desperation. Any suggestions?

Mumble, mumble, something about the moon, mumble.

I had a post in my head but I forgot it when I opened the door.

I have been miserable all day. I managed to hurt my back last night and I couldn't even tell you how. I wonder if I am choosing physical pain over psychological pain. I only have quite useless painkillers.

I am presently much consumed with thinking about little Daniel who is an incredible empath. A minute and a sentence in the half light and he wants to know what's wrong. He even gave me a hug - what a sweetie. He always knows how other people are feeling. It's quite lovely to know people like that.

I keep my promises. Sometimes.

I now have damp hair.

I also have some trousers hanging up in the bathroom in the vain hope that the steam will remove some of the creases. I have vague scientific notions about steam and wrinkles. Also about steam and time.

None of that was very obscure, was it? Pity.

Thank you, I shall be here all evening.

I need to wash my hair.

I also need to find some funeral clothes and organise them into wearable order.

This is an exercise in procrastination.

So is my life.

I like it when things dovetail.

Ohohoh

What do you say to your childhood friend when her sister's just died? Her sister who was only a few years older than the both of you and who you remember so clearly as a child.
Oh fuck.
Fuck.
FUCK.

But that's not me at all.

I was going to take a quiz called 'Uniquely you' (because I secretly love quizzes and not so secretly love anything that's all about me) and then the page loaded. They wanted me to order a series of phrases from most like me to least like me. I can do that, it's not difficult. However, these are the phrases: Always smiling, Good listener, Generous, Cares about others, Always calls people back, Believes in true love, Truthful, Reliable, Funny, and Helpful. Oh dear. Whoever this person is she is not me and I don't think we'd get along at all well. I'd probably make her cry. A lot.

I need a nap.

It’s not strange that I regard the fact that my family all have their birthdays in one week as a cosmic joke played upon me by the universe is it?

In related news, I loathe, absolutely loathe, shopping. Before you try and make me hand back my girl-plumbing (like I’d hate that) and chest ornaments I shall share a little something with you: a small part of my brain is entirely dedicated to handbags. I think that this means I am a girl after all.

Crap

Facebook issue. How do you send someone who you don't particularly like into limited profile? Dammit, she was bad enough at school at now it turns out she's a goddite too. HELP.

Word to the wise: booze and internet do not mix well.

I am off to catch up on my drinking. Please make yourselves at home whilst I am out.

Stupidities

I have this belief that I am, really, so much duller than everyone else and that eventually everybody will realise it and stop speaking to me.

Advice column.

How much vodka is needed to combat a particularly nasty case of sexual frustration? D’you think the two bottles should cover it?

Feel free to leave your own problems in the comments – I’m quite happy to drink yours away as well.

This is serious, mum.*

I hold in my hands [while I type, aren’t I clever?] my most recent reason for never ever voting for John Howard. I’m afraid [all politicians take note here] that there’s just no way that I could possibly vote for anyone who attaches their name, let alone their signature, to a document entitled Net Alert: Protecting Australian Families Online. It was all I could do to peel off the plastic [honestly, why is no-one interested in saving the old growth plastics these days?] and peer at the waste of tree inside.

Since my tax dollars and the trees that my unlikely-to-exist-children will now not see went into this I thought I’d better give it the time of night and attempt to read it. After all, the one about drugs proved quite useful [I do love a good catalogue but for the life of me I couldn’t find a listing for my nearest stockist. Fortunately, I have Guitar Boy downstairs.] and I thought this might be equally enlightening.

I’m quite fond of finding the silver lining to things [which, I suppose, means that I rather like a challenge so long as I don’t have to get off the couch to participate] but I’m not sure that one exists for this, er, document. Sure, it uses all the right words but it makes out that there are internet activities that are inappropriate. For those of you who have yet to receive your copy or who have cruelly thrown it in the [recycling] bin without first liberating it from its plastic coffin [where was I? oh yes] I have a point in mind with which to illustrate.

My thing [a phrase I’m inordinately fond of], my point thing even, is this – there is, allegedly, this thing called ‘cyber stalking’. Apparently, if you put yourself out there on the internet [there’s this thing called the internet too, did I mention it?] there is a chance that you’ll attract these people called ‘cyber stalkers’. This is when somebody follows somebody else around on the ‘net [I’m a-gettin’ the hang of this now] and, well, annoys them lots. As a habitué of all manner of internet type things I cry bollocks in the general direction of this idea.

I mean really, it’s not that I’m a victim blamer or anything but you get these young things out there in their tight little blogs and with their skimpy little facebooks and of course they’re going to attract some attention. Sure, some of it will be a little more than they can handle but, well, they’re doing the tight and skimpies and they have to grow up sometime. What’s more, they go out looking for the attention, begging for it by commenting randomly and poking people for fun. Fun! These youngsters! Wouldn’t know a good poke if it bit them.

So, the point is, stalking my arse - this is the public domain and you are whoring yourselves delightfully – please don’t stop because the government tells you too. I like it. I like it a lot. How about we meet up? Or you could come over and sit on my lap…or something…

*1. I know, I know, this needs some work. It's late, give a girl a break. 2. Humblest apologies to TISM. It seemed appropriate.

Really.

It's okay to say no.


Except to drugs. Say yes to drugs.

Halp.

Arse being kicked at Scrabulous.

Please send brain.

Things I learned from C.S. Lewis #3:

If you name your child Eustace it will be a cunt and you will have gotten what you deserved.

Me love you long time

Here comes love, it's like honey

You can't buy it with money

Here's the thing, I checked in the supermarket and you can, in fact, buy honey. You can buy honey quite cheaply and in rather plentiful supply despite the drought. For a semi-reasonable sum you could buy enough to cover yourself and everyone you know in honey. Fun as that may be it is not love and it is not free. I suppose that if you wanted to piss off some bees and if you had the right connections then you could go and get the honey straight from the bees. I guess that would be sort of free. Sure, you'd pay a dreadful emotional cost in knowing that you've raped a poor innocent beehive. You might even have the karmic conundrum of knowing that your pursuit of honey has caused the death of a large number of bees. The bees may even die from pining for their lost honey. Alternately, you might pay the price in beestings and, again, the emotional cost of being the death of bees. Sure, if you go and harvest the honey for yourself then you aren't buying it with money but I'm sure you'll agree that your soul will be that tiny bit diminished by your deliberate and callous abuse of bees. At which point, you'll have to spend some quality time at a bar buying the drinks which are the only things capable of soothing your savaged soul. Naturally, you'll avoid mead. The important point is that you most definitely can buy honey with money. I have some sitting in the cupboard right now that I acquired in such a fashion.

Love, however, is not something that I've ever found for six dollars a jar (it's the drought, man, and I'm right in it) at the supermarket. Indeed, it is something that I've never had the money to buy. Not that I'd particularly want love that came in a jar for six dollars. Or even a love that did that. Or even a lover that did that. Oh dear, I’m becoming all tangled up. I’d be curious to know if anyone has ever found love at a supermarket and, having done so, if they had to pay for it at the checkout. I’m quite sure that plenty of people think that love is something that can be provided for adequate fiscal return but I suspect that they’re confusing their terms. Things that you can buy for money may be fun if you can’t get them for free – getting anything for free is so much more fun though – but none of them are love. I can really come up with no decent argument in which love can be bought for money. Or even with money.

I’m not even terribly sure if love and honey have that many similarities. Sure, both are sweet in moderation but too much of either can have terrible physical repercussions and play havoc with the pancreas. As we all know, both are safer after they’ve been properly processed and, possibly, heat treated. Both are, in the right circumstances, quite yummy and fun but, really, not at all tied together and without sufficient similarity to compare. In short, love is not really at all like honey. Honey can be bought with money. Love cannot be bought with money. I strongly suspect that this couplet is all about rhyme and nothing at all about the similarities between love and honey and their relative costs – financial or otherwise. I cannot tell you how much I hate that.

Plans for these hours: 3.30-5.30 and beyond!

2.30 to 3.30 mission accomplished with minutes to spare. I am, however, presently rather exhausted and suspect that I might have the slightest bit of a hangover and therefore need a rest.

All missions ceased until 5.30 when I shall hunt down a New Order cd, place it on repeat, and then make some inroads into the washing and washing up. Being domestic is utterly exhausting.

Plans for this hour: 2.30 - 3.30

Groceries. Which, alas, means putting on clothes and leaving the house. Damn.


Also, eight times between 9.08am and 2.03pm and no comments? You don't seem to understand that I need something to do!

Plan for this hour: 1.30 - 2.30

Vegemite toast and quiet time.

Stages of a drunk.

So retarded I'm barely tolerated? Why tolerate at all?

*goes off and cries in the ladies of my mind*

And, in a hugely amusing co-incidence, my favourite she-male [crude but the la(d)ss is rather defying explanation] shows up at my local wearing a red cape and, apparently, off to see Motörhead with some mates. The cape was a decidedly amusing article of clothing last seen either on a catwalk somewhere or being sported by Audrey Hepburn. Just the thing, when you think about it, for wearing to Motörhead.

Speaking of ladies, she did, well, use the ladies anyway. This lead to a discussion on the fairness of people with penises using the ladies when there are only three toilets and quite long queues. Seriously, no fair. There needs to be another option. I am unnaturally fascinated by this chick and have now encouraged a friend in my fascination. Mostly, though, I just want to take her shopping and maybe buy her some clothes that look more natural and a decent wig. Oh, and throw her beret under a truck.

* The cat is there merely for cuteness and because it looks rather a lot like my cat. However, if I did that to my cat she'd have shredded my arms and then chewed off my toes while I was screaming in pain. We like to call her 'highly strung'.

Things I miss:

Letters – both writing and receiving them. Reading the scrawl of another and forcing my hieroglyphics on them in turn.

Baths.

Reading in the bath. And today, for some reason, I particularly miss reading Agatha Christies (whilst I’m in the bath, of course).

My cat.

Spending ordinary time with my family.

My childhood bedrooms – all of them.

Flinders Street East – but only occasionally.

Green tree frogs who sit on the back steps and who hide in squishable places like the hinges of doors.

Sleeping in air-conditioning on hot summer nights, hot spring nights, hot autumn nights.

Playing cards with my parents and drinking while listening to the oldies music station.

Possums and bandicoots in the back yard.

Some of my former housemates. I miss Mathew, of course, and, strangely, Rebekah. It says awful things of me that I am not in contact with any of the people I used to live with.

Sitting in the small patch of sunlight near the backdoor of the Forest Lodge house drinking tea and eating an apple for breakfast at 11a.m.

The sense of purpose I once had as I plotted my escape.

Painting those giant school canvases.

The art rooms at school whenever I hear Nirvana or Hole or Cyprus Hill.

The coolness of my parents’ bathroom in summer. I used to spend a lot of time in there with the bath. I loved that bath.

Who would come here twenty-two times in one day?

I remember being twenty-two. I think it was nice.

I've really got to do something more productive than wandering around the house squinting at things and occasionally playing with my boobs.

Also,

I need new music. Suggestions would be lovely.

At the moment I'm all steamy for L7 - which is weird because I never was before - and sweet as that is I desire something new not new-old. Yeah?

It is hot and I'm not happy about it.