Turning 100

Well, this is a milestone, and although I normally am not one to celebrate such things, I'm pretty proud of this.

100 posts. For someone who never sticks with anything, that's pretty exciting.

Unfortunately, that's the only reason for this post. I had a very quiet weekend that involved reading, tidying, catching up with family, mowing lawns, chasing naughty kittens out of neighbours' yards, and managing to hold off until yesterday before gorging myself on the chocolate eggs in the kitchen.

And, of course, just as is pretty much every Australian and New Zealander of my generation, I'm feeling very sad over the death of Paul Hester. He was a familiar face growing up... like a big brother that I didn't have. Split Enz, Crowded House, and I enjoyed Hessie's Shed so much... an insight into the camaraderie of muso's that would always fascinate me.

I hope he is in a more peaceful place now. I hope his daughters learn to understand. And accept.

Scar Tissue

At what point do references to a past relationship simply die away, forgotten, to be remembered occasionally with a certain word, or a place that brings the memories back, surprising, unfamiliar, because you no longer recognise that person as yourself.

Does it die, or is it suffocated by the new memories overlaying it with new experiences, a new relationship? And if another relationship doesn’t happen along, then what to do with that point of reference that has become stale and well past its use-by date.

People talk of moving on. "You’re over that now, aren’t you?" Well, yes. The day I walked out the door I had accepted the fate of it. But what am I to do with the decade of memories?

The fact is that a great deal of what I experienced during that time, was experienced as a "we" and I feel somehow fraudulent to try and rewrite the experience as an "I". But then I hate the way it makes me sound like a sad, pathetic, lost soul who cannot move beyond where she was. That isn’t how it is, but I can so easily see how it would look like that in others’ eyes. Although, should that matter? I’m not going to pretend that a large part of my life never existed just to placate those who think it’s better to hide the parts of life that don’t follow a well structured plan.

When having lunch with my mother the other day, I told her how sometimes when I am coming home I have flashes of one of my cats dead in the street. It isn’t something I want to imagine, but sometimes it feels like I need to be prepared for the possibility. After all, my much loved cat Billy was killed by a car out the front of my home, and I have retrieved a neighbour’s lifeless cat from nearly the same spot only a month or so after Billy died.

My mother looked at me as though she simply couldn’t find the words to express how my thoughts were completely alien to her. "Why invite sadness into your life?" her face said.

Maybe it is because I have always known, for as long as I can remember, that happiness in my life is temporary and not to be trusted; slippery as soap and likely as not to pull your feet out from under you just when you’re thinking you’ve got your balance again.

So I’ve lived my life looking in the shadows for the disappointments that, undoubtedly, are waiting, dull-eyed and cold to the touch.

Got a bit carried away tonight.

I planned to drop into the supermarket to buy some comfort food and a few tins for the cats. Well, before I do that, I’ll just pop into the cheap CD shop. But before I do that, I’ll just pop into the Tandy store that is having a sale. And I’ll just buy one of these tiny little stereos, because I don’t have a stereo in my office, and I have to play my music on the one in the living room, but that room is right next to my neighbours’ bedroom, and I feel guilty about playing music late at night, but I am a night owl and need to listen to music late at night, and I don’t like using the computer because if I’m using PhotoShop or another memory intensive programme, it makes the music lumpy, and I don’t like my computer speakers, they hum, and so when I saw this tiny little stereo on special I just decided the hell with it. THEN I went into the cheap CD shop and got a copy of Kings of Leon’s Youth and Young Manhood (which is currently playing on my CD player, in my office, at 10.45pm), and a double album of the Violent Femmes, even though I actually have the original album, but this had a whole heap of demos and live recordings on the second CD, and who can say no to the Violent Femmes. Who are playing in town in the next week or so. Anyone want to go? Anyone??

Oh, and how is this for impressive. I think, no, I KNOW I out-geeked the Tandy store guys. Yep, they were giving me that nervous laughter and pushing my bag of goodies in my direction in a definite, "get out our shop you poor lonely freak" manner. But then the cool chicks in the CD shop were all chatty with me because they liked my music choice, and I freaked out and ran away. Yep, I’m a freak.

I’m still working at the comfy undie place. The catalogues never end. Well, I’m onto the next season, which is much smaller and more organised, but still, not a chance we will meet the deadline. Which I told them when they gave me the deadline. I gave them a print out of a timeframe, when I would need info, when the work would need to be finalised, when it would need to go to the printers. The turn around was ludicrous, but doable if I got all the information last Thursday. I’m still getting it… The meeting was last Wednesday, and they didn’t even bother rolling down my requirements to the relevant parties (a single email would have done the trick) until after my deadline. Nice, huh. I don’t care. More money for me if they stuff around. (I do care… I have this stupid work ethic and desire to do a good job. Shits me.) But I’m finding it much harder to get keen on going into the office. It is partly boredom, and partly that I get irritated and some of the people around me (don’t ask me the same stupid question three times and not write down the answer each time and then not expect me to come flying at you with flailing fists (fantasy only of course)). I’m so good at figuring out what I don’t want to be doing. Wish I could just find out what I do want to be doing.

Oh, and happy St Pats to all those out there who are just starting the day… and to those staggering around in a Guinness induced bloated stupor.

I had my first ever blog-meets-reality experience last night.

What does that mean?

Just that I met a fellow blogger for a drink and chat. Or at least it would have been a talk, if it weren’t for the fact I managed to track down the worst bands playing in Sydney on Saturday night, and parked us in front of them. My voice today sounds like a 14 year old boy’s, permanently caught in that ‘break’ moment. Due to trying to talking over the bands. Not at all good.

But the night was. There was beer, beer, water (for wooses like me) and more beer. And laughter. And piss-taking of aforementioned bands. And more beer.

Thanks for a fun night Dirk. Looking forward to reading the roadtrip stories when you get home. So get them fingers a-writing. Soon!

Today was… well, today was just another day I suppose. I got paid, I paid rent, I juggled bills. I tried to avoid the politics of the office where I’m working. I failed to avoid the politics of the office where I’m working. I got slightly pissed off that people don’t care that they do a crap job. I decided that in 3 weeks time it won’t be my problem that people don’t care that they do a crap job. I listened to the Zutons, loudly. I listened to Machine Gun Fellatio, even more loudly. I cursed the PC at work for being a PC, and a slow, shitty PC at that. I bought underwear. I bought cat food and garbage bags. I made guacamole. I ate too much. I watched a funny show featuring people who are even bigger music geeks than me. I read blogs. I chatted to a stranger who dropped in on Yahoo. I pondered the fact that I seem to have both wrinkles and zits. I put on strawberry lip balm. I listened to the quiet as all the cats curled up and slept after a very active evening of chasings. I wondered about the friends that I seem to be drifting away from. I thought about cleaning the bathroom. I decided against it seeing as it is 11.30. I listened to the Test Netball match on the TV in the other room. I read some more blogs. I wrote this.

Battle of Wills

So there I am, standing on the side of the road, yelling at the front passenger side wheel-arch, "Get out! If you stay in there you’ll get squashed! I can’t drive with you in there." A man walked past and gave me a distinct "What a nutter" look, and I just cracked up laughing. What had led me to this spot? Well, for that we need to go back to the day before. Cue cheesy special effects… wibble wobble wibble wobble wibble wobble – come on, wave your arms with me, you know you want to.

Saturday morning I got up determined to track down a CD that I had tried to find on my day off. I was after a copy of the Zuton’s CD, as well as a book by Jasper Fforde, after seeing him interviewed on the Book Show last week. I headed down to the big shopping centre in Broadway, and strode into the CD store. I hate shopping centres. There is something about that hum of human voices in a state of consumeristic ecstasy that really puts me on edge. Even if I was joining in on the consumerist part.

I found the CD straight away, and after a little searching, tracked down the book as well. A bonus was also finding a new book out by one of my favourite authors, AS Byatt. So with my little horde of treasure in my bag I headed back to my car to go back to Leichhardt for some lunch and a bit of a relax, people-watching.

I had left the Broadway parking station and pulled into a busy intersection, waiting to make a right hand turn. There was a good song on the radio. I still had the window down as it was a nice day, and I was singing along to myself when suddenly "Oh My Lord!"

For some strange reason, I don’t swear when I am frightened. Pretty much any other time, but not if I get a fright. With a fright, I suddenly turn into my Catholic Nanna and say strange phrases like "Ohmylord" or "Jesuswept!" or "HolyMaryMotherofGod". So what gave me a fright? This. Do not look if you have a fear of spiders

A large huntsman (bigger than my palm, although not as big as my whole hand) ran across my windscreen towards me and then ran into my WINDOW above my head. Fortunately it did an immediate about face and ran out again. At which point I exclaimed very loudly "Oh. My. Lord." And laughed nervously when I realised how loudly I’d said it. And wound up the window as quickly as I could.

I should point out that these spiders aren’t dangerous, just scary looking. The thought of one of them touching me, though, still sends me just a little loopy.

Anyway, I drove along, trying to gauge the reactions of the cars around me to see if the big hairy spider was still car surfing on my roof, or if it had dropped off somewhere. I kept a look out for it to run across another window but didn’t see it. All was good until I pulled up to park at Leichhardt and realised I would have to wind down the window to get the ticket to the parking station. Hmmmm. Not such a good idea. So I pulled over to the side and got out with a newspaper, determined to flick it off into the bushes nearby. But it was gone. Not to be seen anywhere. Relieved, I parked and had lunch.

A day passes, and I go out for lunch at a nice local café and read my book and write in my journal and enjoy the surrounds (and drop my pen off my incredibly narrow table about 5 times… I think the bloke on the adjacent table thought I was not quite the full quid).

I go home and phone my mother, telling her all about my encounter with the hair legged one the day before. I hang up and realise I need a few things I had forgotten to buy earlier, so I hop into the car and start driving. It’s dusk, almost dark, and as I turn a corner, I spy movement on the dashboard. Yep. On the inside of the car. With me. All alone. In the dark.

I calmly pull over, fling myself out and run around opening all the doors. I grab my trusting newspaper and begin spider hunting. Now I don’t know how something so large can hide so well, but it did. I looked under mats and around crevices and everywhere I could imagine a spider might want to find a little homely comfort. People walked past and tut tutted about the oddities that one can see in the streets on a Sunday night.

I looked and looked and couldn’t find it. I turned on the air conditioning in case it was in the vents. Nothing. I turned on the engine, in case it that was what was making it so aggravated. Again, nothing. And I realised I couldn’t stay there all night. Perhaps it had dropped out of the car when I opened the door and I hadn’t noticed.

So I get back into the car. I put it in gear, I leave the interior light on, and I slowly pull out, trying to drive with one eye looking ahead and the other roaming around the interior of the car. And out he pops again. Why a he? Because I bloody well said!

Now he is pissed off (I think the motion made him irate), and running all over the inside of the passenger window. I pull over, dash around and open the door, he runs to the outside of the window, and I close the door quickly. Now all I have to do is flick him off the car, ready newspaper in hand. But he was not having a bar of it. Instead, he ran under the wheel arch.

So here we are, with me yelling at him to get out of there, because even though he was big and disconcerting, I didn’t want to squash him, as he really was quite a good specimen of huntsman spideriness, and also I didn’t want him roaming around where he could get back into the air vents and spring up on me again.

So what’s a girl to do?

She sticks her paper under the wheel arch, and on sight of some big hairy legs trying to fend it off, she flicks, and throws the paper after it, resisting the urge to squeal like a 10 year old in the process.

So I left Mr Huntsman in the gutter, while I jumped back in the car and drove off, leaving him, and any remaining dignity on my part, in my dust.

p.s. I hope he got off the road without being squashed.

Oh bugger... where'd the weekend go? This is what happens when I buy a good book... I start reading and it's suddenly 1am and I have to go to work in the morning (THIS morning).

And I actually had things to write about! OK, will pull finger out tomorrow and get brief of weekend done (boring), plus a 'battle of the wills' story. Might mean putting the book in the freezer so I can't get to it though. I'm quite smitten with it.

Till then.

Home truths
Last night, as I left the office, I realised I had left my notebook behind, just as the steel security gate clanged shut behind me. I don’t have any access passes to the building, so I couldn’t go back in to get it. At that moment of realisation, I suddenly had a flash of panic. I knew I wasn’t going to be in the office today, and I felt unreasonably vulnerable that it would be sitting there, on my desk, for anyone to read.

There are no great state secrets in that notebook. It is mainly full of jottings that occasionally end up in here, and sometimes just are written down as a way of getting the thoughts out of my head. It’s a combination of a diary, a history, a dream journal, story ideas, funny words I hear in the day, silly ideas that buzz around in my head… nothing that would be of interest or make a great deal of sense to anyone else. Even moreso as I write it from the back… I have no idea how that started, but it seems to make sense to me, and so I continue writing that way. The notebook has been rained on, scuffed about, and is held together by a big bulldog clip to stop it getting torn up in the nuclear explosion that is my shoulder bag.

Being without it for a day has made me feel vulnerable. Even though I logically tell myself that it is just a notebook and that it is meaningless to anyone else… it still feels like I’m walking around naked, and it will just take one person to point at me and shout… and suddenly everyone will realise the truth about me.

I took the day off work today. I got my hair cut (oh the blessed relief) and spent the afternoon with my mother, primarily window shopping. I’ve mentioned before that my mother and I don’t have an affectionate relationship in the normal sense, as others might expect of a mother and daughter. We don’t touch. We don’t talk about sensitive issues really. We know we are there for each other if we need anything, but we don’t really talk about our ‘feelings’. We’re much more likely to discuss sports than whether we are happy.

For the most part it was a good afternoon… we looked through shop after shop, and I bought myself a Chinese good fortune statue and a little container for incense sticks. My feet began to ache (stupid feet) so we had some lunch and continued on, this time looking at clothes. My mother has always been intensely interested in fashion and clothing and make up and appearance. She is incredibly fit and her appearance belies her age. These things are important to her in a way they will never be to me. Even when I had a good figure and could wear whatever I wanted, I still only had a mild interest in it all. As long as I was neat and looked good, I was happy.

Now… well, now I walk into those shops knowing that there isn’t going to be a single thing in there that I will be able to fit into. Spending the afternoon walking into shop after shop, murmuring sounds of approval as my mother held up outfit after outfit… my feet ached and I began to feel rather down about the reality of what I am these days. I caught glimpses of my reflection in the windows and wondered at how disappointed my mother must be with how I have turned out.

Most times I can ignore my weight… it doesn’t stop me working or driving or walking or swimming or doing the things that I want to do, usually. It doesn’t stop me having fun with my friends, or reading or writing or thinking or getting out on a horse or a bike…

But if I am honest with myself. Brutally honest. Then it does matter. Even though I want to say it shouldn’t. That it doesn’t change who I am. That people should accept me regardless.

But that’s the thing. They do. It’s me who doesn’t. I use it as an excuse to myself, as to why I will never be good enough for someone, why noone will be interested in me, why I should just accept a life on my own. Because at least this way, if I can blame it on them rejecting my weight, then they won’t be rejecting me. And I really know how pathetic and stupid and self-pitying this all sounds. How if I am unhappy I should just bite the bullet and do something about it. How it is all in my control to change my life around. I know that all logically, but this isn’t about logic. It’s about fear.

Because that’s what I’m truly afraid of. What I have always been afraid of. They will find out the truth.

That I, me, the person inside, am simply not worth the effort.

I was going to be a complete miserable git and whinge on about the fact that I'm not feeling very happy at the moment... but then I read something that made me laugh out loud, and, well, hell, I can't be bothered now.

I can say that I made a fuck up at work. Oops. There are a good half dozen reasonable excuses why the mistake happened, and considering the only quality control has been what my very tired eyes have seen as they cast themselves over the 750 A3 pages I printed out and sent off to the printer that day, I'm not really all that suprised that SOMETHING slipped, but still, I feel bad that it happened. And guilty. And also resentful, because everytime I've asked for help everyone's been too busy, but not too busy to go home dead on time, leaving me to work 20 hours a week overtime for the last couple of weeks. (Gonna buy myself a treat with that I can tell ya *grins*). Anyway, I'll face the job owners tomorrow and see what can be salvaged.

hmmmm Other than that... not a great deal happening. My neighbour came around last weekend to let me know that their plastering was collapsing and that they were going to get the real estate to do a property inspection. I've been here 3 years and have not had one, and I like it that way. No offence to anyone out there who might be real estate agents, but bloody hell I hate inspections. It's the Catholic guilt thing mixed up with the fear of being homeless (thanks Father for both of those)... plus the thought of a stranger in my home, uninvited. If I ever hear anything from them, I will arrange to be here... you would think this would be enough incentive to want to buy. Oh, who am I kidding, I live in Sydney, I have no proper job, I cannot save a cent...

Anyway, I'd better get myself off to bed... need a good night's sleep to face the poo in the morning hehe

Till next time.