When our friend visited from WA, recently, she thought there'd be no feeling more welcoming than getting jabbed by needles in front of a crowd. Ever supporters of public torture (oh, to have lived in the time of hangings!) we trotted our dainty, untarnished arses off to the Tattoo Expo to lend our support.
Having just painted my nails before we left, I needed Ben's help pulling up my pants (decided it was a 'pants up' occasion). I was also scolded for eating my badly timed, ginormous ice cream like an unco 5 year old as we raced through the expo foyer, and reminded that I'd be in big trouble if I came home tattooed (missy!). My infantalisation now complete, I felt a little out of place in a room where facial peircings and zombie make-up were the norm. I saw one chick with pierced cheeks. Cheeks, people! Right where you'd find two rosy spots, in a perfect (cartoon) world.
We also learned, Duwey kindly demonstrating as reciprocant, that it is customary among tattooed folk to physically place someone where you would like them to be instead of saying 'excuse me'! - We placed ourselves further from the doorway after that, venturing into the darkness... As usual, Ben and I had entered a sea of black clothing in our wanky, typical married-couple matching white tees and light denim shorts. Painting my nails proved a smart use of time, though, (when is it ever not?) my choice of gaudy-yellow blending nicely with the bright overtones of the very popular pin-up girl look of the day. If we were sniffed out as plain-skinned spies, I could hold my nails up like 10 little badges and exclaim, "See? I'm one of you! Spare us! (Take Duwey - He said he wants the works!)"
Ever driven by the belief that the world revolves around me, however, I remained conscious of our reverse-freakism, and began fancying that the tattoed folk classed us non-tatters as 'cleanskins.' Good Catholic girl that I am, I knew better than to view this virginal skin as a source of shame. Rather, it was a coveted commodity deserving only of the highest bidder. We strutted about with our wares(bending over to flash uninked butt cracks.. Pulling shirts over heads to scratch spotless bellies), each artist looking upon us as the blank canvas fit for their next masterpiece, hoping that their needle will be the one. Or, they could play it cool like Amber's artist who, when she tried to introduce us, told her he was too busy and to bring us back later. Okay!
Put back in our place of insignificance thusly and moving on, there were some interesting sights to see. One big baldy was having the back of his head worked on and I watched with smug amusement as he tried to hide his pain, revealed only in the subtle tensing of his feet and shoulders. Now, I've never been tattoed, but I'm pretty sure I could take 50 needles to the head without even flinching (whilst swallowing glass AND breathing fire). So, obviously I'm better than that guy.
Another point of interest was the quarantine style glass box wherein Dr Rev had been 'blood painting.' This guy really 'pours himself into his work' (haw, haw), using his own blood to create portraits that are actually quite impressive beyond the gimmick. The use of the blood from the background inward adds a gripping intensity to the artwork, seeming to encapsulate each subject in a world of pain. Dr Rev had been working directly from the vein that day, and had slipped out for a rest when we passed his stall. The effect of that empty box was like evidence of some unethical experiment, straight from Rise of the Planet of the Apes; it was fitting then that the fresh piece on display was that of an ape, with a pained look in his eyes.
Or, if fine art ain't your thang, perhaps a skate deck imprinted with some lovely naked ladies, puckering vaginas and all. (I'm pretty vaginas don't do that, although I guess that'd make it easier...). On the way out, we also passed a cock-rock themed t-shirt stall which sold hats with flaps to complete the look. As I wondered why these particular hat flaps were ridiculously long, the stall guy popped his head out to reveal a long, lustruous mullet closely resembling the product itself. Question answered!
The remainder of the day was spent in getting back to our good, Christian, cleanskin roots. We skipped on over to DFO to find a couch for our new, fancy pants townhouse (all the while holding hands, singing Taylor Swift, riding white horses and eating cupcakes).
Please note: Many animals were harmed in the making of this blog, but only because it helps me concentrate. I do however, apologize if I have hurt, broken or spilled red wine on the feelings of friends. Amber's tats are quite rockin (and change with her environment like camouflage, which is cool). Well worth the public torture. Her artist was also very friendly when we finally had the honour. Ben may not be as bossy as I make out. There are some nights when he doesn't even beat me! I call them Treat Nights. And, for the record, I never claimed that 'tattoed folk' are the race responsible for 9/11 (although, it is a known fact).
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Friday, September 2, 2011
Last Friday Night.
Last Friday night, I went out for dinner with friends, proving in the process that when you ride with me, baby, even an ordinary event can become extraordinary. “I’ll show you…” [Opens the gate to Jurassic Park
We’d arranged to meet at the Glen, as had several thousand other people (well, they were meeting THEIR mates. Jo’s really not that popular). We gave the parking lot a once-over and decided that since we hadn’t succeeded in finding a park right away, we should quit (an attitude I recommend for all fields of life), settling instead for a space down a dark alley in front of an abandoned construction site. Prime, brutha.
The hike back to the Glen was long and arduous. We climbed many mountains and crossed many freeways, the latter made easier by pushing the homeless out into the traffic. Needless to say (as I am not one to complain or exaggerate), by the time we reached our destination we’d worked up quite an appetite and could probably give a few starving nations a lesson in hunger. Our minds and endurance weakened thus, and knowing only that we wanted “some kind of.. Asian”, we naturally piled into the first suitable-looking joint that would admit us.
We’d arranged to meet at the Glen, as had several thousand other people (well, they were meeting THEIR mates. Jo’s really not that popular). We gave the parking lot a once-over and decided that since we hadn’t succeeded in finding a park right away, we should quit (an attitude I recommend for all fields of life), settling instead for a space down a dark alley in front of an abandoned construction site. Prime, brutha.
The hike back to the Glen was long and arduous. We climbed many mountains and crossed many freeways, the latter made easier by pushing the homeless out into the traffic. Needless to say (as I am not one to complain or exaggerate), by the time we reached our destination we’d worked up quite an appetite and could probably give a few starving nations a lesson in hunger. Our minds and endurance weakened thus, and knowing only that we wanted “some kind of.. Asian”, we naturally piled into the first suitable-looking joint that would admit us.
It was clear from the beginning that we’d found an anomaly among restaurants, the menu providing the first sign of danger. I am personally a fan of a simple menu, being that less choices help prompt a decision (a handy tactic for the hungry). Sure, sometimes you’ll have 3 or 4 pages, making life a little harder but still manageable. This restaurant, I kid you not, thought variety the spice of life, and spread our options out over about, ooh.. forty pages! If the amount of food wasn’t confusing enough, the restaurant was also having an identity crisis and allowed us to choose from every kind of food in the wooorld. The menu was divided into different cultures, including “Western” for the miscellaneous (heaven forbid they miss anything). You could have nachos, pasta, a steak sandwich, lobster (you know, if you were suddenly feeling a bit fancy at this Frankenstein establishment), eel, crocodile… As well as the mishmash of cuisine, there were so many damn animals to choose from that we fancied the restaurant was keeping a mini-zoo out back!
When we ask the waitress to explain “chiffon” sauce, simply for the assurance that it wasn’t shredded material (hell, they had everything else) we were surprised when she gave an answer. Although, I imagine the only prerequisite for that job was to sit a 50 page quiz on the menu alone, and damn your service skills. Unconvinced all the same that the cook could do a decent job of every meal, I went for what I assumed would be a “safe”, healthy option and ordered chicken teriyaki (or, item 2028, as Jo pointed out!). We had also ordered entrees, so when a plate of fatty chicken steak arrived, devoid of vegies and splattered with bottled sauce, I hoped it was one of those and not my meal. ‘Twas in vain. Not that we fared much better with the entrees. We had forgone an order of rice paper rolls for a “similar” dish that the waitress recommended. Apparently, rice paper rolls and deep fried.. something can be easily confused. How did you pass your menu quiz, woman?!
Ben and Jo did ok with their meals (smug little bastards), but Duwey ordered a terrible pasta dish and was aiming to drown out the flavour when he requested some chilli. With a look of disgust, the passing waiter raised his hand as an insistence for patience, and disappeared without a word. When he returned (which was also to our anstonishment!), he slammed down the chilli and again stormed off in silence. So sorry to trouble you, sir! I guess he was wise to your game, Duwey.Although the meal was a disaster, we miscellaneous Westerners (plus one) couldn’t help but laugh. The clincher was when Ben finished his cup of tea and found a short, curly hair at the bottom. I’m glad he could look at the bright side of that one! We weren’t having so much fun, however, that we were willing to take our chances with dessert (of which the choices were also plentiful, of course) and moved on to a regular café. My effort to be “healthy” was thrown to the wind in my state of delirium and, intending only to order a coffee, I found myself sitting before a fat slice of lemon tart and a moccacino. It appeared magically, so the calories don’t count.
The laughs did continue at the next venue, but you should never tickle my funny bone in public - The night ended on me humping the air in imitation of my friends having sex, as you do. I blame the magic sugar.(Oh, and we also did all that stuff in the Katy Perry song. I wouldn't want to mislead you.)
Monday, August 8, 2011
What Happens in Ararat Stays on this Page.
Ah, the life of a travelling actress. Depending on nothing but your suitcase and script; having no time for friends or the simple pleasures in life; never knowing where your next meal will come from or whether you'll have a bed, come dark; just hoping that it's worthwhile when you bare you soul for the world to see, night after gin-fueled night... (Actually, I've only performed in about 4 festivals in my entire life, but it sounded more interesting when I said all that other stuff. Or, 'lied.' Stay tuned for more amazing embellishments.)
Last weekend, the gang and I took our 'little one-act that could,' Fur Better Or Worse, to Ararat. The play is about two lesbians and a cat, and we all GET IT ONNN. No, no, we don't.. But you can imagine if we did, right? The play is actually good, family fun and we've managed to nab a few awards, thus far. Look, I don't want to boast, or anything, but we are pretty much the best theatre team.. in the world.
The first step in crushing all the other plays with our award-winning amazingness, was a road trip down to good ol' Ratty (that's what the locals call it. Well, I would, if I lived there. Which, having visited once, now, I pretty much am). It's an understatement to say that I'm not a fan of navigation, especially when it comes to unfamiliar areas. As my alternative to driving was to sit on our set couch in the back of a windowless van (well, it has one window. A dumb one), I finally decided I valued my pathetic existence and hit the road with multiple, intricate, hand-drawn maps and my husband's promise of a GPS for my next present.
My first stop was for the collection of my castmate James (a.k.a. Catman), which, although the closest point in the journey, somehow inspired my most detailed map. I studied the whole of Hawthorn vigorously, determining which points of entry would be most likely for a terrorist attack, and where I would go from James' house if I was craving some bandaids and a carton of milk (I assume his place lacks such necessities. [Yes, I crave bandaids]). Despite my weeks of research, and keeping my eyes peeled for the final turnoff, I began to feel uneasy when my estimated travel time of 25 minutes turned into 35. All hopes of turning-off were cruelly extinguished when I reached the end of Glenferrie Rd, the crescendo of my fears expressed through an unhappy-Rainman reenactment. When I was done rocking back and forth and chanting, "Always fly with Qantas, never crash," I strapped on a pair and successfully looked up an alternative route. But, the damage to my nerves was already done, setting the tone for the rest of the trip. James could only watch on in discomfort as I let go of the wheel to water my parched throat or to wipe the tears from my suddenly hayfeverish eyes (it was hayfever, I swear!). I was horribly paranoid we'd get lost, again, occasionally screaming in a 'Nam flashback style, "Is this the way?! Oh, god! - We'll never make it!!!"
It was only once we were a good distance along the Western Fwy that I thought it safe to stop for coffee and refuel my expended energy. Naturally, I made the common error in freeway-driving and passed a perfectly good stop, thinking, 'there'll be something again, soon.' A good while later, I was less fussy and made do with a BP, telling James, "All I want is something with caffeine. Everywhere has coffee nowadays, right? It's like a basic right for all humans, and animals, and rocks. Very, very tired rocks."
Now, is it just me, or do you think it was a horribly cruel act of that magical creature in the sky that when I strutted up to the BP coffee machine, I was faced with the sign, "Hot water only"? Hating myself all the while, I nevertheless asked the attendant the kind of question that kills me in my cafe job: "So, like... Can you only get hot water, or something?" The sweet, old, ocker girl out in the middle of Whoop Whoop had the patience of a saint, wanting to please the stuck-up Melbournite (she'd heard they were prone to explosive rage), and came out of her bulletproof cage to "give it a try, anyway, eh?" She looked more relieved than me when the machine spluttered out half a cup of coffee-like substance, so that I was sorry to ask for some milk to add to the long black it had produced instead of a cappuccino. Her profuse apologies and offer to refund my money (all $2.50 of it!) only added to my feelings of bastardness as I scrambled back to the car to enjoy my luke-warm beverage (turns out the machine wasn't producing 'hot water', afterall!). Well, I did say that caffeine was all I needed, so.. guess I got what I wanted! I should be grateful I didn't walk out of there with only a jar of instant and a straw.
(Also, I twice walked in on little girls in the BP bathroom. Not once, twice! Little shits used all the toilet paper, though, so now who's the bastard?! Should've flushed their heads. Oh, nevermind, there's more paper sitting on top of the sanitary disposal unit. Mmm.. hygienic).
Back on the road, James and I passed up many appealing opportunites, like hiking up the Grampians or panning for gold at Sovereign Hill. We even considered setting up shop and living quiet lives in a small town, a welcome alternative to that last, treacherous leg of our journey. But, we pressed on, both of us knowing the people of Ararat awaited us - nay, needed us - to brighten their sad little lives (and that love is a battlefield).
The show went down without a hitch, except for when I decided to stare into space instead of saying my last line. It was my new interpretation. We also hoped the play's reference to Skippy wouldn't aggravate our adjudicator, Ken James, who no longer wished to discuss his involvement in the series! It was apparently a non-issue, as we picked up awards for Best Comedy award and an Encouragement for James (keep working on it, little buddy. Almost there!) The truth is, the crowds absolutely love James' portrayal of a cat. In fact, he was so convincing in Ararat that one guy told him afterwards, "I've got 2 female cats I'd like you to meet." Pretty sure that's illegal, mate! And not quite the kind of.. 'cat' a man hopes to attract..
Later that evening, we sought our thrills in ye olde country pube, where the recommended special was a granny smith cider called, Dirty Granny, and the bargirl put her slowness down to 'drinking all day.' No worries, love. Bottoms up. We sat outside, gathering around the warmth of Aynslie's cigarettes and sharing the type of hearty laughter that can be fed only by post-performance air. We also shared some more personal stories that I will respectfully keep to myself. I don't think the gang will minding me repeating the one secret we found we had in common, though: It just so happens that, come nightfall.. we are all masked avengers. This became apparent when we simultaneously sighted the bat signal and tried slipping off into the toilets and phonebooth to change into our costumes. Awkward...
The next day, James bravely became my passenger once more, risking his life for the chance to return home. After spending over 24 hours cooped-up together, by this point, we didn't speak and could barely stand the sight of each other. Even our scents, which became concentrated in such a confined space, made the other gag. I'm only joking! I had a great time with you all, Laura, James and Ayns, and I look forward to the next trip, if you can handle me.
Last weekend, the gang and I took our 'little one-act that could,' Fur Better Or Worse, to Ararat. The play is about two lesbians and a cat, and we all GET IT ONNN. No, no, we don't.. But you can imagine if we did, right? The play is actually good, family fun and we've managed to nab a few awards, thus far. Look, I don't want to boast, or anything, but we are pretty much the best theatre team.. in the world.
The first step in crushing all the other plays with our award-winning amazingness, was a road trip down to good ol' Ratty (that's what the locals call it. Well, I would, if I lived there. Which, having visited once, now, I pretty much am). It's an understatement to say that I'm not a fan of navigation, especially when it comes to unfamiliar areas. As my alternative to driving was to sit on our set couch in the back of a windowless van (well, it has one window. A dumb one), I finally decided I valued my pathetic existence and hit the road with multiple, intricate, hand-drawn maps and my husband's promise of a GPS for my next present.
My first stop was for the collection of my castmate James (a.k.a. Catman), which, although the closest point in the journey, somehow inspired my most detailed map. I studied the whole of Hawthorn vigorously, determining which points of entry would be most likely for a terrorist attack, and where I would go from James' house if I was craving some bandaids and a carton of milk (I assume his place lacks such necessities. [Yes, I crave bandaids]). Despite my weeks of research, and keeping my eyes peeled for the final turnoff, I began to feel uneasy when my estimated travel time of 25 minutes turned into 35. All hopes of turning-off were cruelly extinguished when I reached the end of Glenferrie Rd, the crescendo of my fears expressed through an unhappy-Rainman reenactment. When I was done rocking back and forth and chanting, "Always fly with Qantas, never crash," I strapped on a pair and successfully looked up an alternative route. But, the damage to my nerves was already done, setting the tone for the rest of the trip. James could only watch on in discomfort as I let go of the wheel to water my parched throat or to wipe the tears from my suddenly hayfeverish eyes (it was hayfever, I swear!). I was horribly paranoid we'd get lost, again, occasionally screaming in a 'Nam flashback style, "Is this the way?! Oh, god! - We'll never make it!!!"
It was only once we were a good distance along the Western Fwy that I thought it safe to stop for coffee and refuel my expended energy. Naturally, I made the common error in freeway-driving and passed a perfectly good stop, thinking, 'there'll be something again, soon.' A good while later, I was less fussy and made do with a BP, telling James, "All I want is something with caffeine. Everywhere has coffee nowadays, right? It's like a basic right for all humans, and animals, and rocks. Very, very tired rocks."
Now, is it just me, or do you think it was a horribly cruel act of that magical creature in the sky that when I strutted up to the BP coffee machine, I was faced with the sign, "Hot water only"? Hating myself all the while, I nevertheless asked the attendant the kind of question that kills me in my cafe job: "So, like... Can you only get hot water, or something?" The sweet, old, ocker girl out in the middle of Whoop Whoop had the patience of a saint, wanting to please the stuck-up Melbournite (she'd heard they were prone to explosive rage), and came out of her bulletproof cage to "give it a try, anyway, eh?" She looked more relieved than me when the machine spluttered out half a cup of coffee-like substance, so that I was sorry to ask for some milk to add to the long black it had produced instead of a cappuccino. Her profuse apologies and offer to refund my money (all $2.50 of it!) only added to my feelings of bastardness as I scrambled back to the car to enjoy my luke-warm beverage (turns out the machine wasn't producing 'hot water', afterall!). Well, I did say that caffeine was all I needed, so.. guess I got what I wanted! I should be grateful I didn't walk out of there with only a jar of instant and a straw.
(Also, I twice walked in on little girls in the BP bathroom. Not once, twice! Little shits used all the toilet paper, though, so now who's the bastard?! Should've flushed their heads. Oh, nevermind, there's more paper sitting on top of the sanitary disposal unit. Mmm.. hygienic).
Back on the road, James and I passed up many appealing opportunites, like hiking up the Grampians or panning for gold at Sovereign Hill. We even considered setting up shop and living quiet lives in a small town, a welcome alternative to that last, treacherous leg of our journey. But, we pressed on, both of us knowing the people of Ararat awaited us - nay, needed us - to brighten their sad little lives (and that love is a battlefield).
The show went down without a hitch, except for when I decided to stare into space instead of saying my last line. It was my new interpretation. We also hoped the play's reference to Skippy wouldn't aggravate our adjudicator, Ken James, who no longer wished to discuss his involvement in the series! It was apparently a non-issue, as we picked up awards for Best Comedy award and an Encouragement for James (keep working on it, little buddy. Almost there!) The truth is, the crowds absolutely love James' portrayal of a cat. In fact, he was so convincing in Ararat that one guy told him afterwards, "I've got 2 female cats I'd like you to meet." Pretty sure that's illegal, mate! And not quite the kind of.. 'cat' a man hopes to attract..
Later that evening, we sought our thrills in ye olde country pube, where the recommended special was a granny smith cider called, Dirty Granny, and the bargirl put her slowness down to 'drinking all day.' No worries, love. Bottoms up. We sat outside, gathering around the warmth of Aynslie's cigarettes and sharing the type of hearty laughter that can be fed only by post-performance air. We also shared some more personal stories that I will respectfully keep to myself. I don't think the gang will minding me repeating the one secret we found we had in common, though: It just so happens that, come nightfall.. we are all masked avengers. This became apparent when we simultaneously sighted the bat signal and tried slipping off into the toilets and phonebooth to change into our costumes. Awkward...
The next day, James bravely became my passenger once more, risking his life for the chance to return home. After spending over 24 hours cooped-up together, by this point, we didn't speak and could barely stand the sight of each other. Even our scents, which became concentrated in such a confined space, made the other gag. I'm only joking! I had a great time with you all, Laura, James and Ayns, and I look forward to the next trip, if you can handle me.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Spinning in Horror.
Boy, was I wrong when I claimed that spin classes at my gym got easier as the week nights progressed. Going along to the Tuesday night class, this week, I expected nothing more challenging than a medium-level workout, being that Monday nights reek of Tour de France aspirations and Wednesdays are for invalids (and me. I usually fake a limp as I walk in). What I hadn't counted on was the fiery little woman instructing, who I will now forever know as.. The Spin Nazi. What she lacked in size, she made up with terrifying intensity. Her top heavy body looked built for taking and dishing a punch and even without a mic, she managed to fill the room with her Lleyton Hewitt style, "C'MMMON!"
Although on time, the class was already well underway when I arrived (Interesting that the regulars knew to show up early, no?) and I was left to take a star-pupil spot in the front row. I realised why the front was so undesirable when we warmed up with a standing sprint and I breezed into my dainty, boppy pedalling; the Nazi gave a clear look of disgust over my style (later to be replaced with the more direct command "FASTER!!!") and I knew I wasn't in Kansas anymore.
As the Australian Idol judges insist, song choice is everything. Whilst your regular instructors like to throw in the odd sadistic track like, Highway to Hell (tell me about it..), Spin Nazi's choices were truly disturbing. She hit us up with Addicted to Love early into the piece, so that we were left to visualise Robert Palmer's slinky women swaying with ease as we, on the other hand, strained against adequate resistance to match our pedalling with the slow bass line. Mere sweating and grunting does not sexy make.
Apparently, I even grunt daintily, though, and when I pushed through the pain to go "HARDER!" in obeyance of my master, I felt a twang in my butt and waited for something to snap (and not just the nose [let's hope that's all it was] of the guy sitting behind me, who was somehow way too close!).
The Nazi's next move, confirming her Nazidom definitively, was to take down the clock, flashing me a cheeky smile as she did so (being that I'm a chief culprit of clock-watching. Or, as I like to call it, 'when-can-I-get-the-fuck-out-of-here-ing'). I wondered, if I was to take her over my bike and spank her now, would that add the sexiness we were lacking earlier?
The moment that more passive mode of escapism was removed, our eyes all moved to the door. We watched the merry and free passers-by with longing, for we knew, "I was once like you!" Those pedalling close enough to the windows wrote "Help me!" in the sweat induced fog. But, it was to no avail. We soon became immersed in our slog until pedalling was all we knew. In fact, without a clock, who's to say how long we were there? I'm convinced that in our hard-working trance, we were all shipped off to Thailand and used as slave-labour for several months. We were forced to generate power by pedalling in factories, then returned to our bikes none the wiser.
No, it so happened that my seat in the front came in handy, as I was able to sneak a look at the flattened clock every time we got into a standing pedal. Naturally, the Nazi was running us overtime, and just as I decided I'd be leaving at the scheduled moment, she pulled out this little chestnut: "The next number will be a competition between the boys and the girls." Dammit! She knew my weakness: feminism. And proving I'm better than everybody. (Naturally, I won. And those that I didn't beat, I beat down later in the parking lot).
By the time our 45 minute class had turned into an hour and I'd lost all feeling in my body, I waddled out of there with all the other stunned fools who had just paid to be subjected to unspeakable torture. It's ok, though. I unwound when I got home with a nice, warm cry in a nice, cold shower. Ahhh....
Although on time, the class was already well underway when I arrived (Interesting that the regulars knew to show up early, no?) and I was left to take a star-pupil spot in the front row. I realised why the front was so undesirable when we warmed up with a standing sprint and I breezed into my dainty, boppy pedalling; the Nazi gave a clear look of disgust over my style (later to be replaced with the more direct command "FASTER!!!") and I knew I wasn't in Kansas anymore.
As the Australian Idol judges insist, song choice is everything. Whilst your regular instructors like to throw in the odd sadistic track like, Highway to Hell (tell me about it..), Spin Nazi's choices were truly disturbing. She hit us up with Addicted to Love early into the piece, so that we were left to visualise Robert Palmer's slinky women swaying with ease as we, on the other hand, strained against adequate resistance to match our pedalling with the slow bass line. Mere sweating and grunting does not sexy make.
Apparently, I even grunt daintily, though, and when I pushed through the pain to go "HARDER!" in obeyance of my master, I felt a twang in my butt and waited for something to snap (and not just the nose [let's hope that's all it was] of the guy sitting behind me, who was somehow way too close!).
The Nazi's next move, confirming her Nazidom definitively, was to take down the clock, flashing me a cheeky smile as she did so (being that I'm a chief culprit of clock-watching. Or, as I like to call it, 'when-can-I-get-the-fuck-out-of-here-ing'). I wondered, if I was to take her over my bike and spank her now, would that add the sexiness we were lacking earlier?
The moment that more passive mode of escapism was removed, our eyes all moved to the door. We watched the merry and free passers-by with longing, for we knew, "I was once like you!" Those pedalling close enough to the windows wrote "Help me!" in the sweat induced fog. But, it was to no avail. We soon became immersed in our slog until pedalling was all we knew. In fact, without a clock, who's to say how long we were there? I'm convinced that in our hard-working trance, we were all shipped off to Thailand and used as slave-labour for several months. We were forced to generate power by pedalling in factories, then returned to our bikes none the wiser.
No, it so happened that my seat in the front came in handy, as I was able to sneak a look at the flattened clock every time we got into a standing pedal. Naturally, the Nazi was running us overtime, and just as I decided I'd be leaving at the scheduled moment, she pulled out this little chestnut: "The next number will be a competition between the boys and the girls." Dammit! She knew my weakness: feminism. And proving I'm better than everybody. (Naturally, I won. And those that I didn't beat, I beat down later in the parking lot).
By the time our 45 minute class had turned into an hour and I'd lost all feeling in my body, I waddled out of there with all the other stunned fools who had just paid to be subjected to unspeakable torture. It's ok, though. I unwound when I got home with a nice, warm cry in a nice, cold shower. Ahhh....
Monday, July 18, 2011
10 Reasons I Should Be Dead.
1). When mum was just 2 months along with me, she got into an horrific car accident. A nurse who related her injuries to a doctor friend was told that such an early foetus would just naturally abort. Much to people's shock and dismay, however, I hung in there, plotting my future achievement of world domination. (Stage 1, Annoying the Entire Population, is already well underway. I started with my mother's recovery, as her pain medication was restricted due to her pregnancy, and I'm proud to say that I've been giving her a headache ever since.)
2). My older sister was not so pleased that I made it and sat on my head in protest. She herself was only 1 and a half at the time, so there's no need to beat her up for my sake. A few empty death threats will suffice.
3). When I was around 3, some older girls said it would be funny if I ran out on the road in front of cars. Sounded good to me. The first driver was very unimpressed, but decided not to kill me. She stopped her car and flew out in a rage, asking if I understood the dangers. "You could have been strawberry jam! They'd have to scrape you off the road!" I was very intrigued by the image of becoming jam and getting scooped up by a giant eggflip, but decided to save my death for the less predictable future. Maybe I could become a Curly Wurly, somehow.
4). My sis and I got into strife one day when dad left us alone in the car while he ran into a mate's house. We hopped into the front seats to watch the clouds roll by through the windscreen, quickly noting the optical illusion that the car itself was moving. Due to our having knocked the gearstick climbing over, however, we finally realised this was no illusion. As the car rolled very slowly toward a gate (behind which barked a Doberman, hungry for little girls) we stayed in the car, screaming in our wait for the gentle collision which we knew would spark a movie-style explosion. We'd be forced to drag our charred bodies from the vehicle (against our father's instruction!) and live out our final moments as dog food. Luckily, Dad heard our cries and liked us (or his car, at least) enough to prevent this meaty fate.
5). Horses have occasionally tried to kill me. We had a very arrogant bay, Casey, who was above being ridden. Every time I'd trot him down the hill, he'd pigroot back to the top and drag me under the low-hanging cypress trees, trying to scrape me off his back.
We also horse-sat an evil little mare who repeatedly threw me off in one riding session. (Luckily, she was almost classed as a pony, so there wasn't far to fall. I was still tough, though, dammit!) After perhaps my 3rd time eating dirt, I decided my mother's literal policy of 'always getting back on the horse' could go to hell. Mum was so insistent with this rule that she once tried to enforce it with my teary sister, before it was pointed out that Bec's bone was sticking out of her arm! She did feel guilty over that one, though. A little.
6). One time, a giant anvil fell on my head. (There may be some phony reasons in this list. See if you can spot them!)
7). At the age of 10, my friend and I found a black snake near my house. Quickly weighing up the sensible options, we went with putting it in a bucket and frightening our mothers. Whereas my friend's mum was furious, mine was oddly unfazed. She never did seem to mind me playing in the long grass.. In fact, she'd sometimes cover me in honey and leave me in the forest, but I always followed those darned breadcrumbs back home.
8). When my mother left me home alone one day (needing more proof that I shouldn't be left to my own devices), I realised that if I climbed the wood pile and gave myself one final boost of strength, I could get on top of the shed. I grew quickly bored once up there, however, and realised that there was no gentle version of a 'boost' with which to get back down. So, like all intelligent folk, I jumped off. It hurt a lot, but, "Ta-da!" No death!
9). I have almost died of embarrassment on many occasions. And laughed my head off. Literally.
10). Ninjas.
In light of all these stories, and the fact I've never broken any bones, I hope you've reached the only logical conclusion: I am a superhero and should not be messed with. Stayed tuned and submissive for my world domination.
2). My older sister was not so pleased that I made it and sat on my head in protest. She herself was only 1 and a half at the time, so there's no need to beat her up for my sake. A few empty death threats will suffice.
3). When I was around 3, some older girls said it would be funny if I ran out on the road in front of cars. Sounded good to me. The first driver was very unimpressed, but decided not to kill me. She stopped her car and flew out in a rage, asking if I understood the dangers. "You could have been strawberry jam! They'd have to scrape you off the road!" I was very intrigued by the image of becoming jam and getting scooped up by a giant eggflip, but decided to save my death for the less predictable future. Maybe I could become a Curly Wurly, somehow.
4). My sis and I got into strife one day when dad left us alone in the car while he ran into a mate's house. We hopped into the front seats to watch the clouds roll by through the windscreen, quickly noting the optical illusion that the car itself was moving. Due to our having knocked the gearstick climbing over, however, we finally realised this was no illusion. As the car rolled very slowly toward a gate (behind which barked a Doberman, hungry for little girls) we stayed in the car, screaming in our wait for the gentle collision which we knew would spark a movie-style explosion. We'd be forced to drag our charred bodies from the vehicle (against our father's instruction!) and live out our final moments as dog food. Luckily, Dad heard our cries and liked us (or his car, at least) enough to prevent this meaty fate.
5). Horses have occasionally tried to kill me. We had a very arrogant bay, Casey, who was above being ridden. Every time I'd trot him down the hill, he'd pigroot back to the top and drag me under the low-hanging cypress trees, trying to scrape me off his back.
We also horse-sat an evil little mare who repeatedly threw me off in one riding session. (Luckily, she was almost classed as a pony, so there wasn't far to fall. I was still tough, though, dammit!) After perhaps my 3rd time eating dirt, I decided my mother's literal policy of 'always getting back on the horse' could go to hell. Mum was so insistent with this rule that she once tried to enforce it with my teary sister, before it was pointed out that Bec's bone was sticking out of her arm! She did feel guilty over that one, though. A little.
6). One time, a giant anvil fell on my head. (There may be some phony reasons in this list. See if you can spot them!)
7). At the age of 10, my friend and I found a black snake near my house. Quickly weighing up the sensible options, we went with putting it in a bucket and frightening our mothers. Whereas my friend's mum was furious, mine was oddly unfazed. She never did seem to mind me playing in the long grass.. In fact, she'd sometimes cover me in honey and leave me in the forest, but I always followed those darned breadcrumbs back home.
8). When my mother left me home alone one day (needing more proof that I shouldn't be left to my own devices), I realised that if I climbed the wood pile and gave myself one final boost of strength, I could get on top of the shed. I grew quickly bored once up there, however, and realised that there was no gentle version of a 'boost' with which to get back down. So, like all intelligent folk, I jumped off. It hurt a lot, but, "Ta-da!" No death!
9). I have almost died of embarrassment on many occasions. And laughed my head off. Literally.
10). Ninjas.
In light of all these stories, and the fact I've never broken any bones, I hope you've reached the only logical conclusion: I am a superhero and should not be messed with. Stayed tuned and submissive for my world domination.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Why I'd Like to be an Elderly English Gentleman.
It may become apparent after spending a little time with me (assuming you first overcome the horror of my appearance and my excruciating attempts at conversation), that I behave somewhat like an elderly male. This includes such qualities as my partiality for dad jokes, my abuse of dated terms, such as 'pish posh' and 'poppycock', and my vigilant daily partaking in a sherry and enima at 4 pm, sharp. Being only a young, spritely woman of 21 (ahem...), my thus unfitting nature can actually be explained in the telling of the tale of my grandfather's influence.
My Grandfather had a lot of shoes to fill. Our Grandmother suffered a stroke as she was walking us to the park one day (we sure could be trying!), and left the scene shortly thereafter; our Nonno died as he lived - in a fight (though, I personally looked forward to the fleeting visits of this intimidating man, who would consistently produce little packets of smarties from his trenchcoat); and the only toys to be found at my Nonna's were the cold, hard, collectable dolls in her immaculate collection. Also.. we were scared of her warty kisses!
Whilst we three olive-skinned brats (then, at least. My British complexion kicked in when I actually started caring about a tan, which I can now only find in a bottle) were too much trouble for some, our well-to-do Grandfather showed us endless love and patience. That's not to say he never gave us a good whooping, but I can assure you we had it coming, and you can bet your bottoms I'll be belting my own kids, by crikey! (Starting from their first word, as we all know their speaking will only lead to swearing. Little fucks.)
Now, you may be thinking at this point (as other jerk kids used to comment when I was kid [that's right, you're a jerk, now. Woh, what happened?!]), "You call your Pa, 'Grandfather'? That's a bit formal.." (which I imagine you'd say in a very jerk tone). But, I can assure you the term was borne of affection. Mum began calling her dad "Father" after reading some ridiculously romantic Russian novel as a girl, in which the heroine did the like. When my older sister mimicked this (ahahaa.. Dum dum) and called him father, also, the quick fix was to extend it to Grandfather, which was used with familiarity and sweetness thereafter.
Less sweetly, (and unbeknownst to him) he also went by Grand'farter'. His poor hearing and our cheekiness led to this invention, which we thought was of utmost genius and hilarity, at the time. 2 years ago. Nooo, we were kids! We were less successful in abusing his deafness when we were misbehaving in the car and he'd tell us to be quiet, however; He'd catch us continuing to whisper in the rear view mirror and blast, "I can see your lips moving!" Seems his vision was fine!
Our Great Gran was also terribly deaf and, as she lived til 101, suffered some memory trouble. When Gran asked Mum a question, she would shout her answer to no avail, then try writing it down. By the time Gran was done reading, though, she couldn't recall the conversation and looked at Mum like she was a complete nincompoop for handing her an irrelevant note!
Thanks to these deaf old dears I'm now in the habit of speaking face-on and loudly (lips exaggerated to show word formation) to anyone over the age of 60, who tend to respond with a look that says, "I'm old, not stupid."
Our final term of endearment for Grandfather was 'Gramps', which we lifted straight from Back to the Future and he took in his stride like a champ. We thought it very fitting that among our many caravaning adventures with Gramps was a trip to the Grampians.
Caravaning was a huge part of the Grandfather experience. We kids had many a night's sleep contested by the rumble of a little heater set on a stifling full-bore, jazz tunes left to bumble away from the 'wireless,' and Grandfather's van-shaking snore, which I imagine resembled the same brassy depth and volume produced from his euphonium back in his band days. I am grateful for all those trips we took, though. Grandfather's love of Australia (reflected in his quick-draw of a camera or binoculars, and his inability to pass any look-out without stopping) and his wonderful grandchildren (self-evident) produced many a picture of my ugly mug spoiling some fine Aussie backdrop. Gramps partook in his own share of photos, which showcase his old man pose of one foot stepping onto a bench or the like, an elbow on the knee and a slight lean forward. You show 'em, Gramps, another pretty hill conquered! (In fact, as he never let his emphysema hold him back on boardwalks or a hike, I suppose that credit is due!) I was also lucky to live the childish dream of having a million Rosellas, typical caravan park residents, feed from atop my head. Some burrowed through to my brain and I contracted many incurable bird diseases, but it was still worth the pain.
Although Grandfather treated us to these trips, he was careful not to spoil us in other ways. Whilst we were guaranteed a yes after pushing through the first two no's from my mother, Grandfather never budged on his stance that lollies rot your teeth. He'd occasionally wiggle forth his falsies to prove this point (to our delight), nevermind the fact that he and my Grandmother had their teeth replaced only as a popular cosmetic procedure back in the day. We were placated by an endless supply of biscuits and ice cream to which we could help ourselves at any time. I knew better than to point our this hypocrisy and, although I no longer like biscuits, full-access to those overstuffed jars is a fond childhood memory. In fact, when my own grandchildren come to visit (that's right, I have grandkids. I'm incredibly youthful) I will be sure to provide the same service. And if they don't like biscuits either, they will be forced to eat them until they do, by golly (so that one day, they can blog about my biscuit jars, and so on and so forth).
Gramps tried expanding our little lolly-obsessed minds, where he could.
He blew the jelly beans right out of my brain when he set a complex math problem ending in 'x0', allowing me to work out some of the initial components before revealing it was a complete waste of time (which is actually a fine analogy for my life. Full circle).
Grandfather taught me how to spell 'friend', and I don't mean that as a cheesy line. I peeked at the word (or, 'cheated', as some may say) when he gave me a spelling test one night. He was so proud that I knew about 'i before e' (except after c!), however, that I discovered guilt as a wonderful motivator for learning and always remembered it since.
Finally, I would say that Grandfather's best quality was his wicked sense of humour (which you may say he passed down to a certain member of the family. *Ahem. AHEMMM!* Sorry, furball. I take my role as cat mama very seriously). I remember when I remarked on the handiness of a little travel shower cap I saw at his house. He asked, "Want one for yourself? All you have to do is book in for surgery at the hospital. Then, after your stay, they give you one of those at no cost." That easy, huh?
My family is very stuffy when it comes to expressing affection. As opposed to the more clear cut hug and kiss approach, we hide our mushy feelings by taking the time to come up with some horribly witty bit of derogation. Grandfather was fairly sick for at least as long as I knew him (I have that effect). When he found his emphysema overwhelming and needed a rest, he'd complain to my mum, "I think I'm dying, Daughter" and she'd say, "Well, hurry up, then." I'm sure you had to be there, but it was their favourite comedy routine, Mum's remark always met with a breathless chuckle from Gramps.
So, with that upbringing in mind, the next time that I flip you the bird or tell you to kiss my arse, just think of my Grandfather and know that I love you. (Not quite the 'British gentleman' conclusion set out in my contention, but it'll do. Now, on your way. *Flips the bird*.)
My Grandfather had a lot of shoes to fill. Our Grandmother suffered a stroke as she was walking us to the park one day (we sure could be trying!), and left the scene shortly thereafter; our Nonno died as he lived - in a fight (though, I personally looked forward to the fleeting visits of this intimidating man, who would consistently produce little packets of smarties from his trenchcoat); and the only toys to be found at my Nonna's were the cold, hard, collectable dolls in her immaculate collection. Also.. we were scared of her warty kisses!
Whilst we three olive-skinned brats (then, at least. My British complexion kicked in when I actually started caring about a tan, which I can now only find in a bottle) were too much trouble for some, our well-to-do Grandfather showed us endless love and patience. That's not to say he never gave us a good whooping, but I can assure you we had it coming, and you can bet your bottoms I'll be belting my own kids, by crikey! (Starting from their first word, as we all know their speaking will only lead to swearing. Little fucks.)
Now, you may be thinking at this point (as other jerk kids used to comment when I was kid [that's right, you're a jerk, now. Woh, what happened?!]), "You call your Pa, 'Grandfather'? That's a bit formal.." (which I imagine you'd say in a very jerk tone). But, I can assure you the term was borne of affection. Mum began calling her dad "Father" after reading some ridiculously romantic Russian novel as a girl, in which the heroine did the like. When my older sister mimicked this (ahahaa.. Dum dum) and called him father, also, the quick fix was to extend it to Grandfather, which was used with familiarity and sweetness thereafter.
Less sweetly, (and unbeknownst to him) he also went by Grand'farter'. His poor hearing and our cheekiness led to this invention, which we thought was of utmost genius and hilarity, at the time. 2 years ago. Nooo, we were kids! We were less successful in abusing his deafness when we were misbehaving in the car and he'd tell us to be quiet, however; He'd catch us continuing to whisper in the rear view mirror and blast, "I can see your lips moving!" Seems his vision was fine!
Our Great Gran was also terribly deaf and, as she lived til 101, suffered some memory trouble. When Gran asked Mum a question, she would shout her answer to no avail, then try writing it down. By the time Gran was done reading, though, she couldn't recall the conversation and looked at Mum like she was a complete nincompoop for handing her an irrelevant note!
Thanks to these deaf old dears I'm now in the habit of speaking face-on and loudly (lips exaggerated to show word formation) to anyone over the age of 60, who tend to respond with a look that says, "I'm old, not stupid."
Our final term of endearment for Grandfather was 'Gramps', which we lifted straight from Back to the Future and he took in his stride like a champ. We thought it very fitting that among our many caravaning adventures with Gramps was a trip to the Grampians.
Caravaning was a huge part of the Grandfather experience. We kids had many a night's sleep contested by the rumble of a little heater set on a stifling full-bore, jazz tunes left to bumble away from the 'wireless,' and Grandfather's van-shaking snore, which I imagine resembled the same brassy depth and volume produced from his euphonium back in his band days. I am grateful for all those trips we took, though. Grandfather's love of Australia (reflected in his quick-draw of a camera or binoculars, and his inability to pass any look-out without stopping) and his wonderful grandchildren (self-evident) produced many a picture of my ugly mug spoiling some fine Aussie backdrop. Gramps partook in his own share of photos, which showcase his old man pose of one foot stepping onto a bench or the like, an elbow on the knee and a slight lean forward. You show 'em, Gramps, another pretty hill conquered! (In fact, as he never let his emphysema hold him back on boardwalks or a hike, I suppose that credit is due!) I was also lucky to live the childish dream of having a million Rosellas, typical caravan park residents, feed from atop my head. Some burrowed through to my brain and I contracted many incurable bird diseases, but it was still worth the pain.
Although Grandfather treated us to these trips, he was careful not to spoil us in other ways. Whilst we were guaranteed a yes after pushing through the first two no's from my mother, Grandfather never budged on his stance that lollies rot your teeth. He'd occasionally wiggle forth his falsies to prove this point (to our delight), nevermind the fact that he and my Grandmother had their teeth replaced only as a popular cosmetic procedure back in the day. We were placated by an endless supply of biscuits and ice cream to which we could help ourselves at any time. I knew better than to point our this hypocrisy and, although I no longer like biscuits, full-access to those overstuffed jars is a fond childhood memory. In fact, when my own grandchildren come to visit (that's right, I have grandkids. I'm incredibly youthful) I will be sure to provide the same service. And if they don't like biscuits either, they will be forced to eat them until they do, by golly (so that one day, they can blog about my biscuit jars, and so on and so forth).
Gramps tried expanding our little lolly-obsessed minds, where he could.
He blew the jelly beans right out of my brain when he set a complex math problem ending in 'x0', allowing me to work out some of the initial components before revealing it was a complete waste of time (which is actually a fine analogy for my life. Full circle).
Grandfather taught me how to spell 'friend', and I don't mean that as a cheesy line. I peeked at the word (or, 'cheated', as some may say) when he gave me a spelling test one night. He was so proud that I knew about 'i before e' (except after c!), however, that I discovered guilt as a wonderful motivator for learning and always remembered it since.
Finally, I would say that Grandfather's best quality was his wicked sense of humour (which you may say he passed down to a certain member of the family. *Ahem. AHEMMM!* Sorry, furball. I take my role as cat mama very seriously). I remember when I remarked on the handiness of a little travel shower cap I saw at his house. He asked, "Want one for yourself? All you have to do is book in for surgery at the hospital. Then, after your stay, they give you one of those at no cost." That easy, huh?
My family is very stuffy when it comes to expressing affection. As opposed to the more clear cut hug and kiss approach, we hide our mushy feelings by taking the time to come up with some horribly witty bit of derogation. Grandfather was fairly sick for at least as long as I knew him (I have that effect). When he found his emphysema overwhelming and needed a rest, he'd complain to my mum, "I think I'm dying, Daughter" and she'd say, "Well, hurry up, then." I'm sure you had to be there, but it was their favourite comedy routine, Mum's remark always met with a breathless chuckle from Gramps.
So, with that upbringing in mind, the next time that I flip you the bird or tell you to kiss my arse, just think of my Grandfather and know that I love you. (Not quite the 'British gentleman' conclusion set out in my contention, but it'll do. Now, on your way. *Flips the bird*.)
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
How I Came to Sleep in My Mother's Bed on Mothers' Day.
Went down to the old girl's house for Mothers' Day, as you do. When it came to sleeping arrangements, Ben and I were shown to the queen size bed in the bungalow, where there was already one black spider making itself at home through the open window, and the air was 90% ice. We recalled sharing a single bed in our early days, and thought we'd take our chances comfort-wise on the bottom bunk in my sister's room, being that I already had a cold and thought less cold air would be suitable (and happen to find minimal spiders an ideal sleeping condition). In fact, we decided, it would be utterly adorable and most certainly cosy.
So, about an hour into our being twisted together like pretzels, I questioned how the hell we'd ever managed to nocturnally cohabit such a teeny space. (Although, the fact Ben's muscles now burst out of the shirts he used to wear should've sounded alarm bells). Not one for snuggling, I quickly grew boiling hot, and fidgeted around removing pajama pants, a sock.. My wig. Ben's undies (what? I was bored). I was clearly disturbing my co-sleeper, in any case, but what finally drove me to the brink was an indistinguishable, repetitive thudding sound somewhere in the house that grew into a very loud banging. Wig, sock and pj's went back on (I kept Ben's knickers as a trophy), and I whisked up a blanket to find a new sleeping space.
I sourced the banging to a demonic shower with an unworldly dripping volume, stumbled across a sleeping bag (score) and, once I had climbed over / cleared unpredictable items typical of my mother's house (such as a ladder..?), settled down on the floor of the lounge room. My brother had the couch and upon hearing me enter even lit my way with his phone (helpful for the ladder clearing). Things were looking up.
By waking Johnny, though, so did I wake his chest infection, and the poor bastard's blood-curdling death rattle ensued. Just like when you're stuck in traffic and you wonder whether to change lanes, though, I was relieved not to have changed rooms when (20 minutes later..) the coughing subsided. With a cold of my own, I discovered that lying on my back (the most comfortable floor-sleeping position) sent a continual stream of snot down my throat. I turned onto my.. "child-bearing" hips, thus discombobulating my spine, but nevertheless began to drift into a soundless dreamland... But, while some of us like such quiet and oh, I dunno, SLEEPING during the night, do you know what other people like doing?: TEXTING MY BROTHER! ARRRGH!!! The lounge had served me poorly and was added to the list of places I'd like to explode (maybe, or maybe not giving Johnny time to evacuate) as I packed my sorry, tired arse up and returned to Belle's room.
I squished down in the narrow floor space between the bed and a pile of clothes, where I was kept alert by the fear of Ben stepping on me in the night, or Belle jumping on my head from the top bunk in the morning (due to either their not knowing I was there, or the simple fact that I'm an evil bitch who deserves it). The room was considerably colder than the warm lounge where sicko Johnny had possession of the only heater (an oddly rare device in freezing cold Fish Creek), so I rested the sleeping bag over my face like a frigging grub in a cocoon and tried not to think about the potentially grimy journey it had endured prior to my finding it in the middle of the floor (and why it was full of Nerf bullets...). I had again reached an acceptable condition for sleep when my step-father's alarm clock reminded me that he's a dairy farmer (Yay!) and then, once he'd left for work, a rooster told me it was dawn!!! Thanks, thoughtful bird!!!!!!!! Ah, the country.. How's the serenity?
I basically laid awake until 7 am when my mother rose, her consciousness signalled by a smoker's cough which joined in beautiful unison with my brother's chesty baritone (both usually followed by a puff of ventolin [and the lighting up of more cigarettes. Ah, just what the doctor ordered]). I could hear them talking (probably about what an amazing night sleep they'd gotten and how lame it would be to be lying on the floor right now. Bastards!) and considered joining them when it dawned on me, "Geoff's out of bed. Mum's up. Free bed!" Not leaving my sleeping bag, I shuffled down to the kitchen in cocooned grub form (although I didn't morph into a fucking butterfly later, I can tell you that) and literally begged the pathetic words: "Mama, can I sleep in your bed?" (At least it was on Mothers' Day. I'm sure my vulnerability was a precious gift). And there I slept in my mummy's bed for a brief but gratifying 2 hours, before heading back out into the world to tackle more bullshit, and to inflict tenfold of my own.
So, about an hour into our being twisted together like pretzels, I questioned how the hell we'd ever managed to nocturnally cohabit such a teeny space. (Although, the fact Ben's muscles now burst out of the shirts he used to wear should've sounded alarm bells). Not one for snuggling, I quickly grew boiling hot, and fidgeted around removing pajama pants, a sock.. My wig. Ben's undies (what? I was bored). I was clearly disturbing my co-sleeper, in any case, but what finally drove me to the brink was an indistinguishable, repetitive thudding sound somewhere in the house that grew into a very loud banging. Wig, sock and pj's went back on (I kept Ben's knickers as a trophy), and I whisked up a blanket to find a new sleeping space.
I sourced the banging to a demonic shower with an unworldly dripping volume, stumbled across a sleeping bag (score) and, once I had climbed over / cleared unpredictable items typical of my mother's house (such as a ladder..?), settled down on the floor of the lounge room. My brother had the couch and upon hearing me enter even lit my way with his phone (helpful for the ladder clearing). Things were looking up.
By waking Johnny, though, so did I wake his chest infection, and the poor bastard's blood-curdling death rattle ensued. Just like when you're stuck in traffic and you wonder whether to change lanes, though, I was relieved not to have changed rooms when (20 minutes later..) the coughing subsided. With a cold of my own, I discovered that lying on my back (the most comfortable floor-sleeping position) sent a continual stream of snot down my throat. I turned onto my.. "child-bearing" hips, thus discombobulating my spine, but nevertheless began to drift into a soundless dreamland... But, while some of us like such quiet and oh, I dunno, SLEEPING during the night, do you know what other people like doing?: TEXTING MY BROTHER! ARRRGH!!! The lounge had served me poorly and was added to the list of places I'd like to explode (maybe, or maybe not giving Johnny time to evacuate) as I packed my sorry, tired arse up and returned to Belle's room.
I squished down in the narrow floor space between the bed and a pile of clothes, where I was kept alert by the fear of Ben stepping on me in the night, or Belle jumping on my head from the top bunk in the morning (due to either their not knowing I was there, or the simple fact that I'm an evil bitch who deserves it). The room was considerably colder than the warm lounge where sicko Johnny had possession of the only heater (an oddly rare device in freezing cold Fish Creek), so I rested the sleeping bag over my face like a frigging grub in a cocoon and tried not to think about the potentially grimy journey it had endured prior to my finding it in the middle of the floor (and why it was full of Nerf bullets...). I had again reached an acceptable condition for sleep when my step-father's alarm clock reminded me that he's a dairy farmer (Yay!) and then, once he'd left for work, a rooster told me it was dawn!!! Thanks, thoughtful bird!!!!!!!! Ah, the country.. How's the serenity?
I basically laid awake until 7 am when my mother rose, her consciousness signalled by a smoker's cough which joined in beautiful unison with my brother's chesty baritone (both usually followed by a puff of ventolin [and the lighting up of more cigarettes. Ah, just what the doctor ordered]). I could hear them talking (probably about what an amazing night sleep they'd gotten and how lame it would be to be lying on the floor right now. Bastards!) and considered joining them when it dawned on me, "Geoff's out of bed. Mum's up. Free bed!" Not leaving my sleeping bag, I shuffled down to the kitchen in cocooned grub form (although I didn't morph into a fucking butterfly later, I can tell you that) and literally begged the pathetic words: "Mama, can I sleep in your bed?" (At least it was on Mothers' Day. I'm sure my vulnerability was a precious gift). And there I slept in my mummy's bed for a brief but gratifying 2 hours, before heading back out into the world to tackle more bullshit, and to inflict tenfold of my own.
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