Monthly Archive for June, 2008

House Mates and Washing Machines Don’t Mix

Published on June 27, 2008 in Beloved and Books n Stuff. 1 Comment

I am reading a cool book at the moment called I Lick My Cheese and Other Notes From the Frontline of Flat-Sharing by Oonagh O’Hagan. Basically it is a whole bunch of notes written by people sharing accommodation. Some notes are short and sweet, some are mini-novels. Some are funny, some are very, very scary. Some are typed neatly, some are written on used toilet rolls.

I haven’t had much experience with living with people other than my family. I once lived with a primary school friend who was gay, funny, charming and as unreliable as all get-out. She would leave me notes saying things like:

I ate three of your sakata crackers – I will replace them

Uh oh….cos me having those three crackers was a life and death situation. But then I would come home to the stench of burnt microwave pop-corn, half the contents of the fridge gone, sausage rolls forgotten about in the oven, lots of giggling and an odd buzzing sound. That is a note not even I can write. Or maybe I can:

You owe me for a new pillow. I spent half the night with mine over my head and it now has the imprint of my screaming face dented into it.

I next lived with my sis and a friend of 20 or so years. We are no longer friends. Not cos we lived together but because her husband is an old, fat bastard who doesn’t appreciate my cheeky sense of humour. (How Bee Repels Friends and Ruins Relationships is likely a forthcoming blog) Anyway. Said friend worked shift-work. Not wanting to wake her I would put my washing in the machine with soap etc ready to go as soon as soon as she woke up. I would then pop out to do a spot of food shopping to come back to the washing machine on and churning, housemate awake and my washing unceremoniously dumped on the laundry floor. This friend was an odd one. She would make narky comments but if you gave her even ½ as good as that back, she would cry. And even though I am a bitch on paper, I am a wuss in real life. So to actually say something purposefully mean and nasty to someone took a lot of guts and to have them dissolve in tears made me feel bad. (However, I am quite often mean and nasty accidentally)

My father was not safe from note-writing. He is a bricklayer and after a hard day of bricklaying in 35 degree heat he would come home, take his boots off and leave his rolled up socks considerately in the washing basket. Washing was my chore. But there was no way I was unrolling my father’s stinky, sandy, cementy socks. I wrote copious missives outlining the need for unrolling, but my warnings were unheeded. So father used to have his socks washed and hung up as a ball. Sure he would unroll them and lots of (clean) sand would spill out, but hey, vacuuming wasn’t my job.

While I worked in the country Beloved had two housemates who I really like – even more so now that I don’t share a house with them. Oh the notes!

It smells like arse in here! Open a freaking window.

and

Vacuum out the bath you heathen wookie

Or this:

The washing machine is not a repository for clean, wet clothes and use the clothes line once in a while. You might find it helps you smell better too

My beloved is not safe from notes. Now that I live in the house full-time I can keep more of an eye on things but before that sometimes a good note was needed. Not so action could be taken (I am no that hopeful) but so that I could feel better.

Dearest Sweetie-Darling,

I love, love, love what you have done in the bedroom. I feel the way you have positioned your clothes on the floor really brings forth the experience of a 20-something man in an uncaring post-modern world. Although I think for your next installation perhaps you can go for something a bit more retro with coat-hangers and folding. What do you think? I think it’d be just super!

Mwah!

Moi! Xoxoxo

I think my only advice to myself is if I ever have to have housemates again I will employ someone to deal with anything to do with clothes and washing machines.

Way to Make a Good Impression….

Published on June 27, 2008 in New Job. 0 Comments

Tell someone at your new work that something is spelled wrong in your employment contract…and then find out it is actually correct. Good thing I am getting out of teaching. Sigh.

Wedding Bells

Published on June 25, 2008 in Can't be bothered categorising. 2 Comments

The invites have been formally sent so I can blab now. One of my close friends is getting married – eloping! She has nicked off to New Zealand to get married on a mountain at sunrise. How cool is that? She is a tad worried that her mum is gonna kill her. Understandable. On her and her mum’s part. Her baby daughter is getting married…..without her.

On the other hand – how damn romantic. Just you and your Beloved in a breath-taking setting, making a life committment. Not worrying about the fact the MC broke his leg at the world’s tamest bucks night, wayward parents, lecherous photographers, normally rude relatives who take umbridge at a throwaway comment from an anxious bride (please – pot and kettle people, pot and kettle), bridesmaids with make-a-break-for-it-boobs etc. Don’t get me wrong – the bells and whistles wedding was bloody awesome. But the peace, tranquility, togetherness yet aloneness of the affianced couple, gazing into eachother’s eyes, saying their vows. Sigh – beautiful!

Hope you have a great time Mr and Mrs FH – can’t wait to party with you when you get back!

Thought For the Day

Published on June 18, 2008 in Can't be bothered categorising. 0 Comments

What is worse than a trip to the dentist? A trip to the dentist when your dentist is HOT.

Oodles

Published on June 17, 2008 in Fur Baby. 0 Comments

Two things I really noticed about Europe. How many people smoked and how many people had dogs. For people who live in such high density areas there were a lot of dogs, and they weren’t all little either.

I missed my fur-baby Theo an inordinate amount on our honeymoon, so my puppy radar was highly attuned to the presence of all motley mutts. It was in Europe I decided I wanted another dog. A lap dog. Sure, Theo looks like a teddy bear, and he still climbs onto Beloved’s lap (at a mere 30kgs and growing) but I was hankering for another pooch. My canine of choice was the Daschund. Every second dog was a daschund. They are cute and boy – do they have a big bark! I decided we would get a sausage dog crossed with a poodle – a hypo-allergenic daschoodle for the asthmatic Beloved. His name would be Chip – short for Chipolata. (However on further research I did find out that a poodle x daschund is actually called a Doodle. I like my version better) I reckon I figured out why so many Europeans have sausage dogs too. Small, to fit in an apartment, a big bark to be a guard dog and little legs, so they can’t jump on the furniture while mummy and daddy are at work.

I was surprised to see most people taking their dogs on train, in shops and even some restaurants. I guess dogs get out and about more because as opposed to Oz, there is no big backyard for them to languish in. I also found it odd that people had their dogs at work with them. In Nice I went ‘posh shopping’, trawling expensive boutiques. Seeing a cute Pomeranian on a cushion near the till was one thing, a honking great German Shepherd under a clothes rack was totally another!

In Mannheim, Germany I saw my first Theo on the way to the hotel. I think my excited squeal of ‘Look! Look! A Theo’ may have reduced Beloved’s hearing of noises of a certain pitch, as well as shaving a few years off some of the Trafalgar passengers. We even saw the same dog in the same spot the next day as we left the hotel. (I saw my next Theo in Whitby, England)

But with all the dogs in Europe, did I manage to sate my need to pat a puppy? Only twice. Lucky the Maltese Terrier in Innsbruck didn’t know what hit him as he sat next to me on a horse and carriage ride, well-behaved and patient, as his owner drove the carriage, and Beloved took 300 pics. The next was an unnamed Westie in St Paul de Vence who was tied up outside his owners shop. I didn’t know it was ‘his’ shop at first and as I approached from afar I told Beloved ‘If he is still tied up when we get up there I am so gonna harass that lil dog.’ Which is what I did, with another 300 pics to prove it.

Thinking about going home the things I looked forward to most were my bed and my puppy. I did manage not to call home and talk to Theo over the speakerphone, as tempting as it was. We did come home to a calmer (and fatter) dog, and judging by the way he is worse than a shadow still, and lets me hug him all the time, I would say he missed us too. My need for a lap-dog has abated somewhat….although I did get a bit gooey over the caramel coloured toy poodles at the pet store at Booragoon on Saturday. But I think that my biggest worry is that at 30 I more clucky over puppies than babies.

Bubble Girl

Published on June 16, 2008 in Cranky/Dopey Bitch and New Job. 2 Comments

I am thinking that the middle of winter is not a great time to start a job that requires the catching of public transport in Perth. Call me a wuss but I am pretty apprehensive about it. There are a number of reason for this:

1) I am a spoilt bitch. I haven’t had to take a bus or train in years. I have always had jobs that allow me to drive to work, in a climate controlled environment with my peak hour favourites, Nathan and Nat.

2) The though of a bus whisks me back to my university days – having to spend 1 and ¾ hours in transit, each way, for a trip that should really only take half an hour. I think bus and I feel cold, wet and poor.

3) Other people. Stinky, germy, yappy, non-respecting-of-personal-space humans. People whose arse takes up two seats, people who talk on their mobile loudly about their drunken weekend or ex with erectile dysfunction, people who sneeze, cough, splutter and generally breathe.

4) My anal retentiveness. (as if this isn’t evident already) I can’t control public transport. I can’t make it run on time, I can’t guarantee a seat or a car spot at the train-station. Will I get stuck sitting next to the guy who smells like onions and cat pee, whose leg keep ‘accidentally’ touching mine?

To gee myself up I think, at least I am not living in London, catching the train in the bloody cold, with sleet – that awful mooshy rain. But then that doesn’t work cos London would be a super cool place to live and their public transport systems kicks our arse, bombs or not. I just need to suck it up and be a big girl. I mean I do claim to be a closet hippie – here is my chance to save on carbon emissions! But I tell you, the moment Beloved gets a parking space under his building I can’t guarantee I won’t be in there, quick as a flash, air-con on, 93.7 on my radio, revelling in the armour of my car.

I will be okay. It is just not having done it yet that irks me, as well as the crappy weather. I know that when the balmy spring weather hits I will be glad to be tripping up the terrace on a crisp morning with a hint of warmth in the air.

But until then, I will be the girl in the bubble wrap, rolling her way onto the train.

On Finding Older Men Sexy (Which Reminds Me I Better Record House on Wednesday Night)

Published on June 15, 2008 in Can't be bothered categorising, Cranky/Dopey Bitch and Queen Me. 0 Comments

I’m getting old. No – really! Okay, so maybe saying I am getting old is a redundant phrase. Everyone is getting old depending on your perspective. Except maybe Olivia Newton John. I swear that woman will look teenage fresh at 80. On Friday night I found out how I know I am getting old. (Besides the fact I find certain male actors over 40 sexy.)

Let me set the scene. It was a warm and sunny afternoon at the Leftbank in Freo. Me, my Beloved, Nursey Chick and Nursey Chick’s Best Friend were kicking back. The music was suitably cool, the seagulls were keeping their distance and no-one had spilled a drink on my foot or groped my bum. (Right there I should’ve known I was at an old people’s pub!) We’d had a drink at home and were feeling the buzz. I should’ve known it was all downhill from there when Beloved, NC and NCBF all put their credit cards on the bar.

Around 11 (I’ll have to confer with my Beloved – it gets very hazy about now) Beloved said he had to go because his back was hurting. I begged to stay and it was done. I guess I missed the heady heydays of the good ol country pub: every pay day Thursday I’d be at the pub playing pseudo-single, dancing and drinking with the girls. I think my next blog will have to be called ‘Bee and Her Double Standards’ or ‘What is good for the Goose is Definitely Not Good For the Gander’. I would be livid if Beloved left me to go home alone while pissing it up with his mates. But he seemed to be okay with it, and that’s why I love him so much. Although I think he rather enjoyed having a day off from “Saturday Bee’ – a non-sleeping in, house-working, food shopping, nagging whirlwind.

I seriously don’t think I lasted even another half an hour before I toddled off to the loo feeling seriously ill. Never have I been so smashed before. I have passed out before, in a hmmm-this-road-verge-looks-so-soft-and-comfy-I-think-I’ll-just-lie-down-here-for-a-bit way rather than the I-think-my-eyeballs-are-rolling-back-in-my-head way. Luckily I held onto consciousness but it was a close call! I forced myself to have a bit of yak and then waited patiently for someone to rescue me, which NC dutifully did.

Has a walk home ever been more torturous? I don’t believe so. Those hills! I managed to fertilise some shrubs (and my shoes), get yelled at by passing motorists, pull a retaliatory finger sign (although, that was just in my head but it felt vengeful), scare some ducks and whine a lot. Let it also be known that my hair is long enough to need to be held back. Thanks NC.

When I got home I had a shower, fell asleep sitting up, opened an eye and grunted when NC supplied me with a blanket, slept for another 3 hours and then woke up feeling absolutely rat-chewed. I couldn’t lie down, it was hard to sit, standing up was a problem and I couldn’t keep water in. The only thing I could do quite well was spew. When that had subsided the other end started in a nasty way. (Blue food colouring makes it green!)

At 8:30am I managed to sleep for an hour until I woke up wanting water in the worst way, knowing I couldn’t have it. I used my Jedi mind powers to will Nursey Chick awake and to get me some ice. 2 cupfuls later I was…..full of melted water. I couldn’t quite manage straight water so I had the best, longest shower – I figured I might get some water in via osmosis.

My Beloved collected me at 5. I’d managed some water, ½ a piece of toast and quite a few episodes of Dilbert. Beloved rather enjoyed his day off – he went shopping with his motorbike mate, Princess (he’s a boy) bought a few suits and some DVDs. See what happens when the leash is lengthened? Retail therapy! But its okay – he got me a DVD and pre-ordered the latest Harry Potter.

What annoys me about the whole thing is I was having a perfectly good time, regardless of the alcohol. It was one of those vibes. Good food, music, company and atmosphere. I didn’t need the 2 ½ glasses of wine, 4…no wait, I just counted properly.. 5 cocktails or the shooter. NC had one more drink than me, NCBF had one less but no one was as sick. And I babble crap when I’m drunk. I’m sure many do. But if I have minimal taboo topics when sober, what am I like inebriated? Girl snogs were indeed a topic discussed but that was soon doused with a icy-cold bucket of ‘I couldn’t kiss you -you’re like my sister!’ I won’t say who said that to who but I will say maximum teasing ensued.

Out of this whole sorry escapade I know I am old because I was really whizzed off at feeling sick, deserting my Beloved and writing off a whole weekend. I wanted to have my food shopping done and floors mopped.

Geez. Soon I’ll start finding Sean Connery kinda dishy. Wait – I think I already do. Just measure me up for the Zimmer frame and Bowls uniform.

Gender Issues

Published on June 13, 2008 in Can't be bothered categorising. 1 Comment

One morning Nathan and Nat on Nova were asking for callers who had been mistaken for a member of the opposite sex. I though it was all very jolly and amusing and recalled a story told by a teacher friend who berated a student with a ‘Get off the desk young lady!’ when it was in fact a young man.

It wasn’t until after my morning cup of tea that I realised that I myself have indeed been mistaken for a member of the opposite sex. (And this does not include incidents up until 3 years old where I still had quite short hair and mum had a penchant for yellow baby clothes)

Back in the day I would help my bricklayer dad on the holidays to earn a bit of extra money. This particular time I was helping dad re-point brickwork at the Mt Lawley RSL retirement home. (Re-pointing brickwork is where you fill in gaps where the cement has worn away.)

It was the middle of winter, I was in a tracksuit, and my hair was under a hat. If I remember I was also in the midst of first-break-up angst. During that period I couldn’t think of food without feeling like throwing up. In the morning I’d manage ½ a kiwi fruit and a cold-milk milo, a bit later in the day I’d have a bowl of corn chips with lemon juice and cayenne pepper (an acquired taste, but addictive once acquired) and I’d have a smidge of dinner. At 48kgs my physical feminine wiles were not so ‘wile-y’.

So I’m cold, hungry and heartbroken with a handful of wet cement. I also have this thing where if I kneel for too long the backs of my knees get insanely itchy. Good thing the pay was reasonable. Dad was a bit wary of the boss seeing me though- he didn’t want them to think he was charging them more to have me there, which he wasn’t. You gotta love a dad who will sacrifice his own cash for his uni-strapped child. However the place was fairly deserted with an old codger occasionally shuffling by for his afternoon constitutional. One of the said codgers stopped by to chat to dad:

‘Your young fella is working hard.’

‘Yes, he is!’ replied dad, trying hard to repress a smile.

The old codger shuffled up to me in his brown tartan slippers and proffered his hand, containing 2 lollies.

‘Here you go, young man.’

‘Thanks’ I said shyly, taking the lollies and blushing.

I maintain to this day that he had his contacts in backwards or perhaps memories of the great war and missing his sweetheart in the male dominated environment in the cold, cold trenches had befuddled his gender recognition capabilities. After being dumped my fragile ego didn’t need my femininity being called into question.

Dad quite enjoyed the whole episode. As an aside, I have a habit – twirling my hair, especially when tired, bored or thinking. (All of the time) So later that day while I stood up to give my itchy-knee-backs a break, I’d stood there, hand on one hip, other twirling the hair poking out from under my hat. My father took great delight in telling me:

‘If you’re going to be my son, I’d prefer you weren’t my queer son.’

It’s Called ‘Being Able to Survive Longer on Nuts and Berries in the Wild that you Skinny Buggers’.

Published on June 12, 2008 in Cranky/Dopey Bitch. 0 Comments

I also like to call it a space to house my future embryos.

I have been endeavouring to shed a few kilos. Having been in a country school with boarders and therefore a $5 cooked lunch everyday (which often involved chips) and dessert (which often involved ice-cream) means I have put on some padding. On a good day I’d say I was curvaceous, pleasantly rounded or cuddly. This is opposed to the PMS induced view of tubby, fatty-poombah or my- god-roll-her-back-into-the-ocean.

I have been on the CSIRO Health and Well Being Plan ($24.95 at all good bookstores) for about 15 weeks, 2 of those quite strictly. Hey, Christmas was in there and then I started back at work and who knew I was a I-hate-my-job-so-I’ll-eat-chocolate-to-feel-better eater? I have been going to the gym and hip-hop and I have lost 2 kilos and a few centimetres all over where it counts…and sometimes too much where it counts more. (Why, why is it the boobs that go first and the arse last?)

So. I’m at work after a torturous staff meeting, chatting to a colleague, in a posture of slumped despondency. Next thing I know, my colleague is patting my tummy with a raised eyebrow asking: ‘What’s this?’

I am the first to say even at a break-up-with-first-love-aftermath weight of 48 kilos I had a pot-belly. It’s my genes. After a couple of pats I cottoned on, squeaking indignantly: ‘Woah! No! I’m not pregnant – just fat!’ You have never seen so many people on the floor laughing. I personally think said colleague (who is actually a lovely person) was paying me back for the time I cried from laughing when she snorted coffee out of her nose at recess.

I figured out the next day what kinda baby I was having. 4 days worth of headaches (the joys of the job) and 4 days worth of codeine……but I don’t think I could joyfully announce the birth of my poo baby!

Poopies

Published on June 11, 2008 in Beloved and Fur Baby. 1 Comment

As I gaze out at our back garden, I wonder if a certain gentle thought will caress the large, convoluted expanse of my Beloved’s brain. While I see grass heavily dotted with Airedale poopies, I believe he sees a pristine lawn of bowling green perfection. It is sort of like when males look for car-keys or milk in the fridge. The lost items, while staring them in the face, ‘are just not there!’

Perhaps I exaggerate. I am sure Beloved physically SEES the turdish landmines. It is the next step that is the killer – the defusing of said landmines. I have the feeling he waits for me to do it….it stands to reason – if I do the unpalatable job 95% of the time, he’s liking those odds!

So this time I will patiently wait. I will not nag: ‘For god’s sake would you pick up the Theo shit, I have done it the last 20 times and I would like it if you took your turn, instead of waiting for the lawnmower man to run over them!’ like a harpy (who, after that sentence, will be rather out of breath). I will wait till that gentle thought turns into a: ‘hmmm, I must pick up those offensive doggy droppings that are despoiling our lovely lawn’.

Sigh. I’m not liking those odds