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!

Cupcakes Keep Falling on My Head.

When Ben and I recently moved from old Stink Town (pronounced "Clay-ton") to a more well-to-do area, I became concerned for my fitness upon finding that the local gym's abundance of massage chairs was matched by its shortage of weight machines.
The cardio room in this land of leisure was equally unencouraging, the well-groomed ladies of the treadmills accomplishing no more than a light trot as their flawless skin refused to sweat. Now, I wouldn't call myself competitive, but when the opportunity airises to prove that I'm better than someone (which, as science has shown, can only be ascertained through a match in physical strength), I like to give them a royal thrashing before their family and friends, then parade about wearing their head as a hat. The good ol' girls of Clayton, who aren't afraid to give the treadmill the grunty pounding it deserves, were thus a little more inspiring to run amongst (I say that as though we were a herd of buffalo and, indeed, 'cardio' in Clayton was allocated to a paddock where we were sent to flatten out the land in exchange for our membership. Some of the girls didn't make it. I say they were better off).

With all the fine dining around here to grow fat upon and the fact it's safe enough to walk around at a leisurely pace (not to mention it rains the most delicious cupcakes and lemonade), I wondered, how do the fine folk of this strange land remain so svelte? WELL.. I got my answer at 11am on Sunday morning when I rocked up for Zumba (that's right, it's another dance blog. Ha!). Having come from a class of old women and one fat dude, run by dead-eyed dance school drop-outs (barring Renata, our beloved fill-in), I was accustomed to being the most co-ordinated dancer. Unlike my classmates, I still had all my original limbs (even my glass eye wasn't a hindrance!). This new, fancy pants class (no fancy pants, no entry) was made-up of fit, young women (except for one old dude. There's always one!) who didn't have to be told by a disillusioned teacher after they failed to follow the choreography once more, "Ok.. Just do whatever's comfortable." In fact, in this parallel universe, I was the slow one. I know, right? Crazy.

My new teacher (whose name I failed to catch but is probably something exotic, like.. Ann) is one of those high-energy, cheeky, fun-loving chicks you wish you could be. And since that's impossible (believe me, no matter how many of these women I skin, it's just not the same), you'd settle for being her best mate. She even resembled the personal trainer from Biggest Loser, Michelle Bridges, and certainly sported the same work ethic. In fact, it probably was her. Definitely.

By around 20 minutes into this class, I could feel all the calories from a fast food and booze diet typical of moving house (yes.. that's why) being exorcised, the little demons visibly flying from my body. (Or, it may have been sweat.) When Michelle/Ann tied back her hair at this point, put on wrist bands and warned, "Now we're really gonna work," I realised, however, that the hardest workout I'd had in weeks was only the warm-up... As is the way, just when I thought I couldn't go any harder, I pushed through the pain barrier and entered a state of euphoria. You know, like right before you drown.

At this rate, if I go to Zumba 3-4 times a week (which I won't), I shall soon have the figure of a 5 year old boy, which is every grown woman's dream.

Signed in Blood.

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).

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.

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.)

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.