Movin' On Up.

Clayton, Clayton, Clayton. Birthplace of Charles Manson, home to the world's largest rat and boasting the country's biggest insane asylum. On a warm day, it's nothing but thick, tip breeze as you stroll past concrete lawns adorned with fountains and eagles. It's a place where you can really make a difference, by kicking a buck to a bum or putting out a car fire. Oftentimes, the Greeks congregate on street corners, speaking in their language to one another as they stare at you and point (presumably asking, "How are you? Do you speak Greek?"). Heck, I even personally birthed and buried 10 children in old Clayton town. Despite all these things (or perhaps because of them. I always get those confused), about a month ago now, Ben and I decided to make a skip and a jump over to Glen Iris.

We'd been looking to move for a while, but gave up on attending inspections that were often during work hours and were always disappointing. Our mate Adam invited us to his place in Glen Iris one night, asking, "Do you guys want this joint? I'm leaving." We answered, "Heck, yes, mo fo!" and the rest is history. How do you like that for Life working in our favour, little bitch that she is?

Prior to living with Ben, I'd always been in furnished share houses and had no experience moving bulky items. I found packing to be an overwhelming task (but then, I find getting out of bed overwhelming) and still had some untouched cupboards come moving day. I’d been a dainty moron with the packing earlier in the week, slotting items into boxes that fit into perfect spaces. This practice became laughable when time was of the essence and I began boxing any which-what together: the hot iron and my bedspread; the cutlery and the toilet brush, etc, etc.
True to her Taurusian nature, Ben's mum Kerry was like a bull at a gate and helped me to clear out those last final areas in no time. Kerry's efficiency did result in her throwing out the first rose Ben ever gave me, however, which I'd preserved for 10 years and, to be honest, had imagined showing our children! Feeling terrible for the mistake, she then secretly asked Ben to buy me another rose, signifying our new start in Glen Iris (which he simply told me about, instead of doing. Close enough, I guess).

Our friends Tony and Duwey also loaned a hand (suckerrrrs!). Gratitude alone prevented me from opening my mouth when Duwey sat down in my antique chair mid-move to eat his bowl of tomatoey pasta!
Duwey and I were clearly the macho men of the group, going for the coffee table when we saw the moving truck arrive. We couldn’t understand, though, why John proceeded to park the truck on the neighbour's naturestrip, and when an Indian man (looking very unlike my father-in-law) jumped out of the driver’s seat, we were relieved we hadn't donated the coffee table as a housewarming gift! Crazy timing, eh?

Another unexpected, confusing arrival was a man who'd seen our house advertised on the net for an open inspection. Our damn real estate agent, who had been unexpectedly lovely when we gave notice to vacate, had reverted to his true nature in the final week of our tenancy, arranging inspections when he'd promised he wouldn't. The poor visitor was very surprised to find us mid-move and I regarded him like a spider, in that he was more afraid of us than we were of him! So, after allowing him a quick tour, I caught him with a glass and sheet of paper and popped him back outside.

When the physical side of the move was almost over and I was making one of my final trips to the new house, I ran into our next-door-neighbour to be. He hesitated a moment before approaching and introducing himself (awww, Glen Irisians are so nice!). After flashing my most retarded 'I-want-you-to-like-me!' smile and muttering a weary hello, I took a moment to assess what would've been his first impression: I was wearing my ugliest clothes that I didn't care about getting dirty (which they did, as did any protruding flesh), I smelled like shit and my hair was in a mental frizz from the steamy bathroom scrub I'd just undertaken at the old joint. Awesome. Haven't seen much of that neighbour since!
Aside from scaring the neighbours, our Glen Iris experience has been utterly dreamy. I don't wanna sound snobbish, but living here makes me way better than you. I have stairs (that I invent fun ways to go up and down. Such as tripping) and a drawer for plates! (That's totes rich people, right there. And if the upper-class don't say 'totes', they do now, bitches.) Walking around the neighbourhood, it's nothin' but tree swings and beautiful gardens, some sporting cute signs that read, "To the person who eats a mandarin here every day, this garden is not your rubbish bin!" (Seriously...) When we saw a giant net around a big tree, we figured, "Wow, this neighbourhood's so perfect, they don't even let leaves fall into people's yards!" We were later told the net's for possums (and that we're idiots).

Ben was the first to visit our local supermarket, returning home with stars in his eyes and stories about fresh vegies resting on beds of ice. It was apparently a little more impressive than our previous supermarket which was run and frequented by booger eating mutants. For the first week or so after the move, I spent my days at work and my nights unpacking and began to feel a bit cabinfeverish. The cats and I were like a secret dungeon family, relying on Ben for tales of the outside world (oh, to see this magical supermarket for ourselves!). Whereas I quickly came to relish in our new home and area, however, the cats took a little longer to get acquainted. As Ben pointed out, they were initially strays who came from the outside world and had to get used to indoor living. It was interesting, then, to see that work in reverse at the new house. They were first released indoors and made sure they were familiar with everything before exploring outside. Whenever I opened a cupboard, they reacted like ladies for whom I'd opened a door, stepping inside with all but a verbal, "Why, thank you." They had also never used stairs, before, or a cat door (another brilliant feature of the new joint!). I'd only ever seen cats jump through those doors with ease, so it was funny to watch Mal and Dee cautiously press their faces against their door before sliding out like slugs. They are now jumping through very gracefully, whenever they care to take a break from sleeping, which they do just as well and as frequently as they did in Clayton.


We are all very happy and comfortable in our new home, and if the good life begins to make us feel hollow inside, there's a clinic just down the road that treats 'depression, anxiety and traquilliser dependency.' Ah, let the gin and tonic sessions begin!

*Whilst Mally's now bounding up and down the stairs, Princess Dee still takes them one at a time.

*We've finally got room for all our glasses! Most of these were gifts. Our friends must think we like wine...

Pulling Faces at Children (and Other Fun Things to Do In Gladstone).

*The bride with her proud cousin.

Ben and I recently wondered, what town can we visit where there's absolutely nothing to see or do? We simultaneously answered, "Gladstone, Qld!", high-fived eachother and, with a wink and a cheesy grin, hauled our butts up there for a week. The occasion was actually Ben's cousin Laura's wedding, which was a lovely event held nearby, and I honestly enjoyed myself (and did a worryingly good job of) lazing about for the remainder of the trip.


Having grown up with a brother and two male cousins she considers brothers, Laura is undoubtedly a tomboy. She can hold her own, has a renowned preference for black and the only girlish dresses I've seen her begrudgingly wear are those in childhood pictures. It was a very special sight then last Saturday, when her proud father presented her in a pure white dress with a long train and a sweetheart neckline. The dress beautifully contrasted her jet black hair which was pinned back (also a rare sight) to reveal diamond earrings and necklace.The bridesmaids were dressed in black, but this fell under the clever guise of a 'black & white' theme (and they did look fantastic).

Clouds had loomed overhead as we awaited Laura's arrival at the outdoor ceremony, typically releasing showers the moment she appeared. Laura's lack of vanity ironically gave her the feminine edge over the other ladies who threw grace to the wind to hold purses over heads and sulk over ruined do's (some of us even running [like a girl] for cover.. Even though my goddamn hair was ruined the second the rain touched it!). As with all backwards superstitions, it is apparently good luck to have rain on the bride and sun on the coffin. Someone retorted, "If you've got sun on your coffin, I'd say it's a little too late. How many people have sat up and said, 'Well, that was good luck, then!'?" Good point.

When we met Laura as a married woman, we were relieved to find that the tomboy was still somewhere under all that prissy fabric. She lifted her dress to show off a very impressive pair of black, studded heels. I would never have imagined shoes like those under a wedding dress, but they suited her to a tee. When I saw her afterwards at the reception with a cigar hanging out of her mouth, the picture was complete. Coolest.. bride.. ever. (Cos smoking's cool. Duh.)
Another cool dude I met at the wedding was Laura's grandfather. Pointing to Ben, he proudly admitted, "I used to feed him beer with a teaspoon!" So, he's the one who started it all! Between that and Ben's grandmother letting him drink the froth of her beers as a child, he never stood a chance. At the reception, Ben had naturally downed a few beers by the time dessert was served. He freely declared his tiramisu to be "a bunch of bullshit!" (No offence, tiramisu, he just doesn't like dessert.) We were seated with Ben's uncle Dean, who is always inspired by Ben's energy and gains a little more courage in his presence. So, when Dean's wife Margo asked if he himself would like to try the tiramisu, she was a little surprised when he boldly replied, "No way, Margo. It's a bunch of bullshit!"

I think the person who had more booze than us all though, was a poor young woman who was left to stumble about, knocking things off the balcony and wearing her black dress up around her navel. I'm the sort of person who enjoys pulling faces at kids when their parents aren't looking (try it! They love it), so when the boozy girl approached me with the most dirty look on her face, I pulled a silly face back out of habit. She reacted with surprise and confusion and I realised she mustn't have registered her own her rude expression earlier. She hadn't been playing the Funny Face Game at all! Oh, well, I doubt she'll remember.

With the wedding all wrapped up at Drunk O'clock, we spent a few more days in Gladdy with the in-laws. Aside from John pinching my book and Kerry taking my tampons from the shopping, announcing "I'll just put these mints in the cupboard" (which, by her embarrassed expression afterwards, I know was only due to her poor eye sight) we had a lovely time together. Perhaps to make up for the tampon incident, as well as suiting John's book-stealing agenda, Kerry heard I like jigsaw puzzles and dug one out of the linen closet. I saw the sissy fairy picture on the box and sighed, "That'll have to do." About an hour or so into it, however, I was fully engrossed, slugging back a beer as I fiercely constructed little fairy faces. And boy, were those bitches tricky! I have worked on many a jigsaw, and I can tell you that nothing's been harder than that damn main fairy's big pink dress. Argh, all the pieces looked the same! So, those sweet little fairies I'd initially scoffed at had the last laugh. I did finish the puzzle, though, (at 1am on the last night.. I would not be defeated!) so I won. *Sticks out tongue.*

The slow pace of life in Gladstone also allowed me to make some amazing discoveries. Like, when you accidentally put Chinese 5 spice on your porridge instead of cinnamon, it doesn't taste too bad; ducks still swim around at night (which we noticed on an evening walk and is actually quite eerie. As Ben said, "There's something unsavoury about a boy flying his kite at night)?; and when you wear a swimming cap, goggles and earplugs in the pool, the facial claustrophobia results in your sudden fear that someone plopped (heheh.. 'plopped') a crocodile into the pool - that honestly went through my mind and I had to keep checking there wasn't one behind me. Don't tell anybody I'm crazy!!


I'm not one for horrifically hot weather, but at this time of year in Queensland, it was just hot enough in the middle of the day to produce a light sweat (the stink of which you'd have to deal with for the remainder of the day if you were out, which was irritating at worst). What I did suffer with were the bright mornings which rendered sleep-ins impossible. I resolved to buy an eye-mask which I sought at almost every store in the main shopping complex. Oddly, though, the only shop that sold them in this land of the sun was Bras-n-things, which stocked a sickly, pink satin mask covered in frills, with Do Not Disturb written across it in diamantes. I practically laughed at the shop girl when she showed me, giving her a stuck up, "thanks, but no thanks!" before shaking my arse from side to side as I left with my nose in the air. I was pretty desperate for sleep, though, and when every other shop turned me down, I returned to Bras-n-things with my tail between my legs. Upon it's second inspection, the mask looked even more ridiculous, and I just couldn't bring myself to buy it. My last option was a chemist across the road, which luckily sold plain masks (and at a quarter of the price), thank Christ!

Just as I had pre-judged the fairy puzzle, I had expected to be bored in Gladstone, but thoroughly enjoyed myself. The moment we returned to fast-paced Melbs, so did all my worries, planning and chores. I will endeavour (unsuccessfully, I'm sure, but it's a nice thought) to switch-off and go with the flow a little more in my regular life, which was my rare accomplishment in the sleepy town of Gladstone. (Having all of my cooking and washing taken care of may have had something to do with it. Thanks, Kerry! Oh, and another special thanks to our friend Jo; she minded our cats while we were away, and they apparently brought lizards inside, vomited on the carpet and slept on her head. I swear they're normally good. Well, sometimes.)

Rosie's How To Make a Shelf with No Tools and No Brains.

1. On your walk home from the gym, pick up a plank of wood from outside a cafe where you later intend to ask for Christmas work, and hope they don't see you.
2. The plank is far too long for the space (even though it is only slightly longer than the too-short piece you hopped out of your car and [inaccurately..] measured like a psycho in the previous evening). After remeasuring, ineffectively, painstakingly take to it with a pruning saw.
3. Return to the space. The plank still doesn't fit, so take 100 hours to trim a little more off.
4. Repeat (seriously).
5. Since it turns out the plank has no magical floating abilities and will not hold itself up, return to the cafe wood pile. If anybody sees you, pretend to be a tree (finally - my acting training comes in handy!). Grab a drawer which, upon dismantling, will presumably have evenly measured, flat sides for propping up shelf.
6. Discover drawer sides have protruding bolts that cannot be extricated (without further crumbling shitty wood), and so try to 'drill' matching holes in shelf. With a screw. And a screwdriver. Realise this is ridiculous and try not to repeat in blog.
7. Saw slits either side of plank and slot in the stupid bolt wood. Aha! Perfect.
8. Return to space with assembled shelf and discover it still doesn't fit. What?! The space seems to shrink the further you go in. What is this? Alice in Wonderland.. land?! Smash a few things in a rage (like your other perfectly good furniture. And your husband) and return outside with the shelf.
9. Try ONE LAST FUCKING TIME to saw off the perfect amount of shelf with your pruning tool. Take several breaks to stare out into space, wondering what your recently deceased agriculturalist uncle would think of your misuse of the saw, as well as your pathetic attempt to prune back some bushes just yonder (again with the wrong tools. Which also somehow resulted in the breaking of a shovel...). Consider giving up after all this time and taking that well overdue post-gym shower, then remember that Stupidity is your middle name and proceed.
10. Try damn shelf in bullshit space again.. and it fits! It also sags in the middle and is too weak to hold all you intended, but you can bake my bottom into biscuits if you think I'm going to find a third prop.
Voila!