Jonella dared me to blog about this experience.
Talking to a friend earlier today, I explained that in a former life I was probably a cat - and that I'm far too curious for my own good at times. They agreed with me. Far too curious. Always sticking my nose in places I shouldn't. Always looking down alleyways and through doorways. Nosey to some - curious to others.
Looking back over the last forty years I can name some experiences that I've wanted to try and I can say I've done it once or twice - and that will do. Party drugs fall in to this category. After taking ecstasy and speed on a few occasions in my twenties, I can say that I've tried it, didn't like it that much and we'll leave it at that. I've tried absinthe - once, had to be done. I've danced all night in clubs. I've seen amazing cinema and plays. I've read books I've been told to avoid - 'American Psycho' comes to mind on this one.
Also, as a practising alternative therapist, I've tried some weird and wonderful things over the years. One of the great things about body work, like Alice's Rabbit Hole, it keeps getting deeper and darker. I play with feet all the time, and have no issue with rubbing a person's manky clodhoppers (after they've been cleaned). Being into alternatives,you feel obliged to visit other forms of alternative therapy - just to experience them. Laughter therapy was something that got tried a few months ago. I've done the odd past-life regression, I know of a Middendorf Breath Practitioner. I'm fond of Alexander Technique, have had the odd kinesiology appointment and know all about Theta Healing and Reference Point Therapy.
Today's appointment, however, was the last bastion in the alternatives.
Colonic irrigation.
For something that's a common activity for everybody on the planet, our back passages and the muck that's excreted from this hole is a bit of a no go area. We talk about headaches. We women talk about our cycles, with each other, some of the time. But nobody talks about poo. Farts, yes. Poo, no.
A few weeks ago, on one of the group buying websites, a voucher for colonic irrigation came up. And in a fit of madness and curiosity, I purchased it.
And after pressing the buy button, I felt a sense of regret. No going back now (unless I let the voucher lapse, and I'm too mean for that.)
Well, today was the day for my allotted appointment to have my back passage flushed.
I mentioned this to a few friends, the response mostly being, "You're brave, always wanted to try that. You'll have to tell me all about it." A few others said, "Better you than me." I've also got a few friends who swear by colonics for various issues and complaints. Jay, my doctor mate from the gym said it was a waste of time and money.
Me, I've just always been curious about this process.
At the end of it, I'd call it more confronting, but not in a bad way. It can be a touch uncomfortable, but certainly not painful. And as for the benefits - we will see.
On arriving at the clinic in Camberwell, home to the colonic flush according to my naturopath ("Could it be that there are more people in Camberwell full of shit?" he postulated.) I was made to fill in the necessary paper work. The woman at reception was professional and calming. I explained that I was a feature writer and this was being done in the name of research - and that I'd always been curious.
Serves me right.
Of the positives of the whole experience, everything in the place was surgically clean and at no time did I feel ill informed or violated. Everything was explained completely and every effort was made to make me feel at ease. At all times I felt my privacy was respected and I did not feel exposed. So they're the good things.
Looking at the whole process, which took about 45 minutes in total, there were some uncomfortable moments. The first one came when asked to stick the lubricated tube in the position.
The bit of tubing that is inserted into your bum the least of these strange moments. About the diameter of a standard pencil, you're asked to insert this 2 centimetres into you anus. No dramas here at all. You then arrange yourself on a special table, put a towel over your bottom half and call the therapist in with a buzzer, who then starts the treatment.
Think of it like an internal dish washing cycle. A first rinse, a deep cleansing and a final rinse. You're given the instruction, "When you feel the need to release, release." as the therapist starts pumping the water in. This is where things get a bit strange. There is a tube up your back passage - how is the rubbish supposed to escape and the tube not pop out? Somehow, it doesn't. Fluid comes in, fluid goes out. Ad infinitum. The sensation is strange, but not unpleasant. They give you a large, heated wheat bag to place on your abdomen to help alleviate any cramping. It was welcome, but I had no cramps. It was more comforting than anything.
The waste is drained off and suctioned out via a clear tube into the plumbing. I only found this out after the treatment, so I didn't watch what was coming out. Thank goodness.
The deep cleanse cycle is a bit of relief. After a ten minute initial rinse out, you're filled with a mixture of coffee, herbs and charcoal, which trickles in, rather than being pumped in over a few minutes. You're also asked to hold this in. After this, it's another 15 minutes of rinsing with body temperature, filtered water.
What does it feel like? Hmm, best way I would describe it is rear-end gastro without the cramps, bloating, fever or urgency to get to the nearest loo. You do feel cleaned out after. This is the good thing about colonics.
After the treatment is over, you're asked to removed the tube, rinse yourself off and dress. All over in the hour.
I found the process confronting, not for what was being done, nor for what happened in the clinic itself. It was more the what was coming out. What is this shame attached to poo in all its forms? Why is it we don't give poo it's full credence? It's just another bodily substance. The other thing that was confronting was after the session, getting off the table, seeing some of the results in the capture area. I was told to not touch anything, just rinse myself off and go. My mother's voice went off in my head, the one that always tells me to leave the bathroom how you found it. Protestant training or shame? I can't be sure.
On leaving the centre, I was given the instructions to drink a lot of water and make sure I avoided starchy foods for the next few days.
So I take myself off to the movies, having a bit of time to kill and not really up for a run - went and saw "A Dangerous Method". Quite ironic that it was a movie about Sigmund Freud. After a necessary stop at the bathroom to finalise the job started at the clinic, the film was a great way to debrief, which was needed. The experience effected me a little more than I thought it would.
And now, a few hours on, I feel a bit whooshy, but fine. Again, it's like that feeling you get after you've had gastro, when all the symptoms are gone and you just feel empty - and this is the good thing.
Would I go back again for another session. Yes, but it's not something I'd rush back to. For now, this is in the basket of things, like party drugs, absinthe and paint balling - glad I've given it ago once, it's been demystified, but I'm not in any hurry to go back.
I'm still glad I'm an inquisitive wee beastie - being a Leo, I am naturally curious, it's in my blood - and I wonder what will be next off the list. Skydiving? Ashram in India? A Burlesque course? Advanced Driver Training? Scuba diving? (Huge fear of open water - can't see that one happening in a hurry)
However a few friends have been asked to remind me, next time I'm going to cross off something like colonic irrigation off the bucket list, ask me if I REALLY want to do it. I'll probably still say yes, just consider it a bit longer before taking the plunge.
Showing posts with label Just a bit wrong. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Just a bit wrong. Show all posts
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Monday, December 26, 2011
Pussy Logic
I've been spending a lot of time with my pussy over the last few days and I've come to the conclusion that the pussy knows everything and if it wasn't so small and allegedly insignificant, pussy would rule the world.
Pussy knows that demanding attention will get results in the short term, but will leave you in peace later, when you need it.
Pussy knows that the ultimate goal of demanding attention is personal satisfaction. Nothing more, nothing less.
Pussy realises that sticking your head in something where not really supposed to be is about the bestest thing in the world, after stroking and being stuffed to satisfaction.
Pussy has worked out that being stroked has more benefits for the stroker than the strokee.
Pussy knows that it's a god given right to be fed on demand - even if it never almost happens in reality.
Pussy believes that trying to be helpful is all that you need to be, even if it entails being a complete pain in the arse.
Pussy comprehends that unconditional love can be shown by being standoffish, antsy and by playing hard to get.
Pussy knows the value of a well-timed guilt trip.
Pussy has worked out that other than sleep, the best thing in the world is cuddles and being stuffed.
Pussy knows that the best way to get out excess energy is to jump around until your exhausted, and then play dead.
Pussy knows the value of a well-timed inappropriate present. The earlier, the better.
Pussy realised that putting yourself right where you're going to get stepped on will lead to unexpected joys.
Pussy knows that being annoying outweights the benefits of being silent or hidden.
Pussy knows the value of silent companionship.
See just how beautifully logical the pussy can be.
Thanks Maow Maow.
And here you were thinking I was talking about something else...
p.s. I'm under strict instructions to write about happy, outward-looking, sunshine, lollpops and daisies for a while. Does anybody know where I can get some prozac? It's against my nature.
Pussy knows that demanding attention will get results in the short term, but will leave you in peace later, when you need it.
Pussy knows that the ultimate goal of demanding attention is personal satisfaction. Nothing more, nothing less.
Pussy realises that sticking your head in something where not really supposed to be is about the bestest thing in the world, after stroking and being stuffed to satisfaction.
Pussy has worked out that being stroked has more benefits for the stroker than the strokee.
Pussy knows that it's a god given right to be fed on demand - even if it never almost happens in reality.
Pussy believes that trying to be helpful is all that you need to be, even if it entails being a complete pain in the arse.
Pussy comprehends that unconditional love can be shown by being standoffish, antsy and by playing hard to get.
Pussy knows the value of a well-timed guilt trip.
Pussy has worked out that other than sleep, the best thing in the world is cuddles and being stuffed.
Pussy knows that the best way to get out excess energy is to jump around until your exhausted, and then play dead.
Pussy knows the value of a well-timed inappropriate present. The earlier, the better.
Pussy realised that putting yourself right where you're going to get stepped on will lead to unexpected joys.
Pussy knows that being annoying outweights the benefits of being silent or hidden.
Pussy knows the value of silent companionship.
See just how beautifully logical the pussy can be.
Thanks Maow Maow.
And here you were thinking I was talking about something else...
p.s. I'm under strict instructions to write about happy, outward-looking, sunshine, lollpops and daisies for a while. Does anybody know where I can get some prozac? It's against my nature.
Monday, December 19, 2011
The Dead Pool
Trawling the newspapers at lunchtime today I saw two little bits of news. Both Vaclav Havel, ex-prime minister of Czechoslovakia, and Kim Jong Il - supreme ruler of North Korea, have shaken this mortal coil. They have kicked the bucket. They are no more. They have ascended to him on high. They have fallen off the perch. They are food for worms. They are no longer breathing or doing anything else for that matter because they are now dead.
My first comment on the news of Kim Jong Il passing was that the world has just got that little more interesting. The second was who on the world stage was going to provide the Elvis impersonations.
My third thought was to wonder who might have had them on their list.
Their list? Yeah, their Dead Pool list.
I used to work for this company a few years back that ran an annual "Dead Pool".
Look, this is all a bit macabre, but to be a member of the Dead Pool what you did at the start of the year was submit a list of people you thought were going to die during a calendar year to the Dead Pool Undertaker or Mortician.
Our Dead Pool at this particular company was run by Ralph, a recalcitrant journalist come doco dude. (Is there any other sort?). It wasn't a company wide initiative - in fact entry was pretty selective - basically this guy selected all the dark-humoured, unhinged, ragtag reprobates in the company to be a member of this club - no idea why I got chosen to join...
Anyway, I ended up running the Dead Pool after he left the company.
The rules were simple. Everybody paid $20 for the privilege of being in the Dead Pool - this was placed in trust. A list was submitted to the club Mortician, who ran a spread sheet with everybody's selections on who was going to "Pass through the Curtain" in that calendar year. If a person on your list croaked, it was your prerogative to supply to the club Mortician two obituaries from national newspapers to prove the death had occurred - if you didn't do that, you weren't assured of getting your points.
You were not allowed to nominate your nana who was in the midst of end-stage emphysema - the people on your list had to be public figures - celebrities, leaders of state, films stars. People who were and are worth an obituary or write up in a national newspaper.
By placing these people on your Dead Pool list didn't mean that you wanted to see them dead - though I know that there were a few who had Saddam Hussein and Osama Bin Laden high on their lists being so wanted at the time - and there would be no love lost if they did depart the earth.
You got a point for each person who pops their clogs in that year, You got two points if that person was under forty - which is a bit of a bummer that I didn't get my list in this year as I've had Amy Winehouse on my list for years. I think Lindsay Lohan might have to replace her now that Britney Spears has cleaned up her act a bit.
At the end of the year, the person who had collected the most points got the cash kitty.
You get the drift - you find a list of people you think have a probability of dying over the year. It's not like you wish them dead - you just think that there number might be up in the fairly near future. Normally you'd pick people who were old and infirm. As I said, you don't want them dead - it's more you think they're going to cark it over the year.
There was always some hemming and hawing when names such as Nelson Mandela made the list - then again - he's in his nineties.. but you don't want to see him dead. Rove McManus's first wife was an unfortunate inclusion on somebody's list - tragic, but not unexpected. Patrick Swayze was another who you'd never want dead - but he had pancreatic cancer for years. I remember when Steve Irwin fell on that stingray - I could hear Ralph's booming voice from the other end of the office yelling, "Crap - I wanted to put him on my list! Andybody who shoves a finger up a crocodile's arse regularly is pushing their luck!" He had a similar reaction when Kerry Packer croaked late in the year - he was top of his list for the following year.
It's just another game of chance.
So who is on my list for 2012?
Well, my ten names are as follows - with reasons:
1. Margaret Thatcher
Ex-Prime Minister of the UK. pushing 90. Had a number of strokes. She's been wobbly for a long time.
2. Nelson Mandela
Another one in his nineties who can't be too much longer for the planet - though I certainly don't want to see him gone. Living in a prison for thirty years can't help the state of your health, though it appears he has kryptonite in his veins.
3. Jim Steynes
Melbourne football legend. In his forties. Undergoes regular surgery for brain tumours. Another one I certainly don't want to see go but you have to wonder how much dicking around in ones brain one can take.
4. Kirk Douglas
A few of you might be asking, "Is he still alive?" Well he is. A testement to the restorative powers of plastic surgury and what happens when you replace your blood with formaldyahyde. I give his son a few more years, but Spartacus must be due to fall off the chariot soon.
5. Lindsay Lohan
My token under 30's name, especially now that Amy Winehouse is no longer with us. She's been a train wreck waiting to happen. I just wonder how bit the splat will be when she goes - then again, we've watch Britney Spears reform. Kate Moss's Ex Pete Doherty was another possible inclusion, but he's been keeping his name out of the press for an age now - possibly means he's cleaned up his act.
6. Dame Elisabeth Murdoch
Mother of Rupert (possibly worth inclusion just for this fact) but as a philanthropist and patron of the arts she's done wonders. She's also over a hundred. Her time can't be that extensive.
7. Zsa Zsa Gabor
Another one being help alive with a foot pump, formaldehyde and a mad husband. Probably should have gone years ago. She's not too far off a hundred - if this would to happen it might be considered a small mercy.
8. Gough Whitlam
Last time I saw him in the public arena, Gough was looking pretty frail. He's my hero - I don't want to see the old bugger go.
9. Ariel Sharon
Ex-Prime Minister of Israel - this poor guy has been on life support in a Tel Aviv hospital for a number of years. If he was my parent I think I'd have asked to let him go years ago, poor love. (My parents have left strict instructions on this thing anyway - no heroic measures if there is no quality of life to be had)
10. Nancy Reagan
She's in her 90s - can't be too long now before she stops saying 'No".
11. Keith Richards
A bit of a surprise inclusion just for good measure, but anybody who's lived that sort of life for so long - well something's going to happen sometime. Besides, the lines on his face are about to go through the back of his head - there isn't enough spakfilla around to keep them plump.
Who would be on your list?
My first comment on the news of Kim Jong Il passing was that the world has just got that little more interesting. The second was who on the world stage was going to provide the Elvis impersonations.
My third thought was to wonder who might have had them on their list.
Their list? Yeah, their Dead Pool list.
I used to work for this company a few years back that ran an annual "Dead Pool".
Look, this is all a bit macabre, but to be a member of the Dead Pool what you did at the start of the year was submit a list of people you thought were going to die during a calendar year to the Dead Pool Undertaker or Mortician.
Our Dead Pool at this particular company was run by Ralph, a recalcitrant journalist come doco dude. (Is there any other sort?). It wasn't a company wide initiative - in fact entry was pretty selective - basically this guy selected all the dark-humoured, unhinged, ragtag reprobates in the company to be a member of this club - no idea why I got chosen to join...
Anyway, I ended up running the Dead Pool after he left the company.
The rules were simple. Everybody paid $20 for the privilege of being in the Dead Pool - this was placed in trust. A list was submitted to the club Mortician, who ran a spread sheet with everybody's selections on who was going to "Pass through the Curtain" in that calendar year. If a person on your list croaked, it was your prerogative to supply to the club Mortician two obituaries from national newspapers to prove the death had occurred - if you didn't do that, you weren't assured of getting your points.
You were not allowed to nominate your nana who was in the midst of end-stage emphysema - the people on your list had to be public figures - celebrities, leaders of state, films stars. People who were and are worth an obituary or write up in a national newspaper.
By placing these people on your Dead Pool list didn't mean that you wanted to see them dead - though I know that there were a few who had Saddam Hussein and Osama Bin Laden high on their lists being so wanted at the time - and there would be no love lost if they did depart the earth.
You got a point for each person who pops their clogs in that year, You got two points if that person was under forty - which is a bit of a bummer that I didn't get my list in this year as I've had Amy Winehouse on my list for years. I think Lindsay Lohan might have to replace her now that Britney Spears has cleaned up her act a bit.
At the end of the year, the person who had collected the most points got the cash kitty.
You get the drift - you find a list of people you think have a probability of dying over the year. It's not like you wish them dead - you just think that there number might be up in the fairly near future. Normally you'd pick people who were old and infirm. As I said, you don't want them dead - it's more you think they're going to cark it over the year.
There was always some hemming and hawing when names such as Nelson Mandela made the list - then again - he's in his nineties.. but you don't want to see him dead. Rove McManus's first wife was an unfortunate inclusion on somebody's list - tragic, but not unexpected. Patrick Swayze was another who you'd never want dead - but he had pancreatic cancer for years. I remember when Steve Irwin fell on that stingray - I could hear Ralph's booming voice from the other end of the office yelling, "Crap - I wanted to put him on my list! Andybody who shoves a finger up a crocodile's arse regularly is pushing their luck!" He had a similar reaction when Kerry Packer croaked late in the year - he was top of his list for the following year.
It's just another game of chance.
So who is on my list for 2012?
Well, my ten names are as follows - with reasons:
1. Margaret Thatcher
Ex-Prime Minister of the UK. pushing 90. Had a number of strokes. She's been wobbly for a long time.
2. Nelson Mandela
Another one in his nineties who can't be too much longer for the planet - though I certainly don't want to see him gone. Living in a prison for thirty years can't help the state of your health, though it appears he has kryptonite in his veins.
3. Jim Steynes
Melbourne football legend. In his forties. Undergoes regular surgery for brain tumours. Another one I certainly don't want to see go but you have to wonder how much dicking around in ones brain one can take.
4. Kirk Douglas
A few of you might be asking, "Is he still alive?" Well he is. A testement to the restorative powers of plastic surgury and what happens when you replace your blood with formaldyahyde. I give his son a few more years, but Spartacus must be due to fall off the chariot soon.
5. Lindsay Lohan
My token under 30's name, especially now that Amy Winehouse is no longer with us. She's been a train wreck waiting to happen. I just wonder how bit the splat will be when she goes - then again, we've watch Britney Spears reform. Kate Moss's Ex Pete Doherty was another possible inclusion, but he's been keeping his name out of the press for an age now - possibly means he's cleaned up his act.
6. Dame Elisabeth Murdoch
Mother of Rupert (possibly worth inclusion just for this fact) but as a philanthropist and patron of the arts she's done wonders. She's also over a hundred. Her time can't be that extensive.
7. Zsa Zsa Gabor
Another one being help alive with a foot pump, formaldehyde and a mad husband. Probably should have gone years ago. She's not too far off a hundred - if this would to happen it might be considered a small mercy.
8. Gough Whitlam
Last time I saw him in the public arena, Gough was looking pretty frail. He's my hero - I don't want to see the old bugger go.
9. Ariel Sharon
Ex-Prime Minister of Israel - this poor guy has been on life support in a Tel Aviv hospital for a number of years. If he was my parent I think I'd have asked to let him go years ago, poor love. (My parents have left strict instructions on this thing anyway - no heroic measures if there is no quality of life to be had)
10. Nancy Reagan
She's in her 90s - can't be too long now before she stops saying 'No".
11. Keith Richards
A bit of a surprise inclusion just for good measure, but anybody who's lived that sort of life for so long - well something's going to happen sometime. Besides, the lines on his face are about to go through the back of his head - there isn't enough spakfilla around to keep them plump.
Who would be on your list?
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
The Short List
It comes around every November / December. One of the hardest decisions of the year. Every year, the agony and the ecstasy if a decision that will play on me for the rest of the year.
What the hell am I going to put up for book group?
I'm a member of a book group. All good writers should be a readers - and as a part of my reading, I go to book group once a month - I have done for a few years now. Some of my best friends are a members of this group. Merijn, Blarney, Georgie, Alice and Jonella are all a part, or have been part of the group. The others in the group are lovely too - and for the most part, we all get on.
This is not to say that all of our reading tastes are the same. Some of us have very different reading habits. A lot of members joined the group to get away from reading what they were used to - most of whom read either crime or vampire novels. Then there are the more literary readers, those who like a challenge, books that make you feel and think, books that have joyful subtleties and fantastic turns of phrase. I like to count myself as one of this group. I stopped reading predominantly chick lit nearly ten years ago, preferring material with a bit more guts to it - then again, I still love Marian Keyes, 'Rachel's Holiday', and Jane Green's 'Straight Talking'. The latter was sort of my life in London down to the getting the Sunday Guardian and The News of The World to read in bed on Sunday...
So here we are at the start of November, and we've come back from our last booked up book group for the year. This month's tome, Paolo Coelho's "By the River Peidra I Sat and I Wept" had two things going for it as far was I'm concerned. It was short and it had big writing. It's not my cup of tea - if I want to read allegoric self-help stuff I'll do it on my own time. It only just made it into this year's list, along with that cat book as it is now referred to. The rest of the years books were fine and enjoyable.
I rather enjoyed tonight's book group. I've been on a bit of a high today since I managed to source a ticket to see Geoffrey Rush as Lady Bracknell in the "Importance of Being Earnest" next weekend. I made a quip that I'd probably have to sell, donate or suck something to get a ticket - but as I've just managed to sell my old iPhone on ebay for a song, the ticket seemed justified. I also quipped at the time that no fellatio was required to get the ticket.
"What's fellatio?" asked one of the book group members. There was a muffled spit take or two around the table.
"It's Italian for standing in a queue when you know you have better things to do." I told her.
"That's a bit of a wanky work. Why not just say stand in a queue?" she asked.
"Well, I spose it's a bit of a mouthful." was my retort. "Go home and ask your partner. He'll know what it is."
Well, I couldn't blow her off, could I?
Back to books.
You're not going to like everything that is put up - and as we have a democratic way of choosing books, you're going to get something you like at some stage. Still wishing Georgie could have voted last year - we tried, but circumstances meant she was waylaid in America stressed out of her brain. We would have had a few different outcomes I reckon. The cat book woudn't have made the top eleven for one...
Regardless, in a few weeks, our book group will be choosing books for next year. Everybody is to bring two books for consideration - and only two.
These books should be of the following criteria:
At the book voting session, everybody is handed a bag of 25 lollies. You vote with lollies - you're not allowed to vote for your own books. You put lollies on the books you wish to read for the year - what ever your preferences are.
For a bit of guidance, group members have been recommended they check the Booker, Pulitzer, Age Book of the Year, Orange Prize long lists, the orange covered Penguins that are out, classics you might not have read at school (I must get around too Wuthering Heights one day in full - its on the pile with 'The Hobbit', 'The Great Gatsby' and 'Catch-22').
Okay, other than that cat book, some of the stinkers we've read have included 'Pride, Prejudice and Zombies', that cat book, Anna Karenina (nearly brained the person who put Tolstoy on the list, especially when they didn't read it - you could bottle Russian Literature as a euthanasing agent), The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte also got my ire. I remember being as sick as a dog the night of that meeting, but I wanted to slam that piece of Methodist Manifesto and burn it. And of course and that cat book which I wouldn't line a cocky cage with. The rest have pretty much met the standard.
So here I am thinking, what am I going to put up for next year. Only one of my books made it into the reading pile this year. I put up Murakami's "Kafka on the Shore", but it didn't make the list. I also dared to put a non-fiction book on "Reading Lolita in Tehran", which got championed and made the list. A fascinating read, but as it was non-fiction, half the group didn't show up.
We've got a few authors we like to avoid. I've been told that putting up Rushdie again won't be well received and will probably sit there with no lollies in the cup if it was put up. I love the novels of Salman Rushdie. We read "The Moor's Last Sigh" a few years ago and it was almost universally disliked. Ah well. Alice used to have a pathological hatred of Ian McEwan saying he understood England as well as she understood the workings of the bogan mind. Me - I'd have preferred not to have read Coehlo. It all comes down to taste. Alice was particularly fussy about what she read in book group - and that is fair enough - but she's not in the group any more to take on other pursuits. I've had a few members of the group say the books are a bit challenging - I point back that book group isn't about reading muck - when they joined they were told that the group has more of a literary bent - deal with it or leave. I'm being a bit more militant about this after that cat book got on the list.
So, what do I dare put up this year. What am I going to champion? I'm already seen as a bit of an egghead when it comes to books and reading. Merijn and I know that we will normally not like each other's choices - she loves Russian Literature - I was 50 pages into Anna Karenina hoping she's throw herself under the train there and then - I loathe it. I love the modern novel - she doesn't - though we sort of met in the middle with Rushdie.
So I'm thinking, and re-thinking - what am I going to champion at our meeting next month.
Here is my short list of considerations - I have to choose two:
Atonement - Ian McEwan
Stellar, stellar book - and not just because of the movie which I adore (even if Keira Knightly is too thin and she is impossibly gorgeous in that green dress). This is probably the best of McEwan - Saturday was okay, I really liked Amsterdam and Enduring Love - Solar was a load of bollox, but Atonement - ah - brilliant. So subtle. He gets the period just right - you want to clobber Briony from the second page, only to get a better picture of her after the events - wondering if she will ever atone for her actions as a child - and the ending is different to the movie too. Just stunning.
Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
Another one of my favorite authors, Faulks is the master of minutiae. A meticulous researcher, Birdsong is possibly the most beautiful novel ever written about WW1 trench warfare. Gut wrenching, gorgeous, sumptuous, sexual - it looks at the hell of war, its consequences and its triumphs. I adore this book - I'm just not sure anybody else will like it.
American Psycho - Brett Easton Ellis
He, he, he. I so want to put this up, but I see a few members of the group walking out in utter disgust. This book is rated R and can't be sold to minors in Australia - it comes wrapped in plastic when sold retail. I read this for my smut course that I did a few years ago (Went back to university to do third year English - the course name was Art, Pornography, Blasphemy and Propaganda) This was on the list - and it was my favorite book of the course. Loved the parody. Love Ellis's easy charm mixed with hyper-violence. Not something to read late at night or when you're alone on the tram with somebody who's a bit loopy. There are parts of it that make you want to throw up. It's cool. Can't see the naysayers liking it, however.
Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides
One of my top three books ever. Pulitzer Prize Winning - an epic book about a person called Cal with a slightly bizarre family arrangement. Looks at Cal's family from his grandparents down to Cal's own life. Rather confronting in parts, brilliantly set in Greece and America with some fantastic characters along the way - heaps to talk about, heaps to think about - and just a magic tale. Like Captain Corelli's Mandolin, you can read and re-read and only get more out of it. Though technically we did it for book group five years ago, I think it's only Georgie and I who are left from the group, so I might chance it as I'm pretty sure Georgie didn't get around to it at the time.
The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
Spanish Author in translation - good popular fiction with a Gothic twist, set in Barcelona. And who says I only choose literature? A great yarn, well set with a great, Poe-ish storyline. Something a bit lighter for consideration. I love Spain, I love Barcelona - and this book takes me back there. And it's about books too - which is always good.
We Need To Talk About Kevin - Lionel Shriver
Other than having an ex called Kevin, I've heard only good things about this book - however after tonight's discussion about how people want to read things that aren't grim, I'm no so sure reading about murdering sociopathic teenager would go down.
Footsucker - Geoff Nicholson
There are two things that might put people off this one - I don't know how easy this champion novel would be to find - it may be out of print by now. It's also about a foot fetishist. As a reflexologist, I sorta get it. Not sure anybody else will appreciate the subtleties - maybe Jonella. It's a cool book. But you don't know whether to be turned on or outraged. Which is half the fun of it.
The Diving Bell and the Butterfly - Jean-Dominique Bauby
Unfortunately I can't put this up as autobiography is banned. But other than it's really short - as the author blinked the text to an assistant, it is a miraculous work of a person overcoming the most horrific of circumstances. A stunning book of great beauty and pathos. But autobiography. Bummer.
I have some decisions to make.
And probably a bit of explaining to do...
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Days without ice cream - 23
Love’s Labours Lost
Old man, deathbed, cried.
Of fate’s cruel hand, joy denied.
Large hands, small dick. Died.
What the hell am I going to put up for book group?
I'm a member of a book group. All good writers should be a readers - and as a part of my reading, I go to book group once a month - I have done for a few years now. Some of my best friends are a members of this group. Merijn, Blarney, Georgie, Alice and Jonella are all a part, or have been part of the group. The others in the group are lovely too - and for the most part, we all get on.
This is not to say that all of our reading tastes are the same. Some of us have very different reading habits. A lot of members joined the group to get away from reading what they were used to - most of whom read either crime or vampire novels. Then there are the more literary readers, those who like a challenge, books that make you feel and think, books that have joyful subtleties and fantastic turns of phrase. I like to count myself as one of this group. I stopped reading predominantly chick lit nearly ten years ago, preferring material with a bit more guts to it - then again, I still love Marian Keyes, 'Rachel's Holiday', and Jane Green's 'Straight Talking'. The latter was sort of my life in London down to the getting the Sunday Guardian and The News of The World to read in bed on Sunday...
So here we are at the start of November, and we've come back from our last booked up book group for the year. This month's tome, Paolo Coelho's "By the River Peidra I Sat and I Wept" had two things going for it as far was I'm concerned. It was short and it had big writing. It's not my cup of tea - if I want to read allegoric self-help stuff I'll do it on my own time. It only just made it into this year's list, along with that cat book as it is now referred to. The rest of the years books were fine and enjoyable.
I rather enjoyed tonight's book group. I've been on a bit of a high today since I managed to source a ticket to see Geoffrey Rush as Lady Bracknell in the "Importance of Being Earnest" next weekend. I made a quip that I'd probably have to sell, donate or suck something to get a ticket - but as I've just managed to sell my old iPhone on ebay for a song, the ticket seemed justified. I also quipped at the time that no fellatio was required to get the ticket.
"What's fellatio?" asked one of the book group members. There was a muffled spit take or two around the table.
"It's Italian for standing in a queue when you know you have better things to do." I told her.
"That's a bit of a wanky work. Why not just say stand in a queue?" she asked.
"Well, I spose it's a bit of a mouthful." was my retort. "Go home and ask your partner. He'll know what it is."
Well, I couldn't blow her off, could I?
Back to books.
You're not going to like everything that is put up - and as we have a democratic way of choosing books, you're going to get something you like at some stage. Still wishing Georgie could have voted last year - we tried, but circumstances meant she was waylaid in America stressed out of her brain. We would have had a few different outcomes I reckon. The cat book woudn't have made the top eleven for one...
Regardless, in a few weeks, our book group will be choosing books for next year. Everybody is to bring two books for consideration - and only two.
These books should be of the following criteria:
- Fiction - no non-fiction, autobiography, biography or memoir will be considered - though I like a good non-fiction book, not for book group - they've proved hard to talk about. Also there is a very noisy faction in the group - the long-termers, who are completely anti it - and nobody turns up for non-fiction anyway.
- Of no more than 500 pages - but can be negotiated - better if it isn't, but we're not going to scoff at something that's say 525 pages. People have other stuff to read in the month.
- Of a literary or very good quality popular fiction standard of writing - so that cat book really shouldn't have made it in the list.
- Should be readily available in bookstores (what's left of them), libraries or online. Nothing worse than a book you can't get hold of
At the book voting session, everybody is handed a bag of 25 lollies. You vote with lollies - you're not allowed to vote for your own books. You put lollies on the books you wish to read for the year - what ever your preferences are.
For a bit of guidance, group members have been recommended they check the Booker, Pulitzer, Age Book of the Year, Orange Prize long lists, the orange covered Penguins that are out, classics you might not have read at school (I must get around too Wuthering Heights one day in full - its on the pile with 'The Hobbit', 'The Great Gatsby' and 'Catch-22').
Okay, other than that cat book, some of the stinkers we've read have included 'Pride, Prejudice and Zombies', that cat book, Anna Karenina (nearly brained the person who put Tolstoy on the list, especially when they didn't read it - you could bottle Russian Literature as a euthanasing agent), The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte also got my ire. I remember being as sick as a dog the night of that meeting, but I wanted to slam that piece of Methodist Manifesto and burn it. And of course and that cat book which I wouldn't line a cocky cage with. The rest have pretty much met the standard.
So here I am thinking, what am I going to put up for next year. Only one of my books made it into the reading pile this year. I put up Murakami's "Kafka on the Shore", but it didn't make the list. I also dared to put a non-fiction book on "Reading Lolita in Tehran", which got championed and made the list. A fascinating read, but as it was non-fiction, half the group didn't show up.
We've got a few authors we like to avoid. I've been told that putting up Rushdie again won't be well received and will probably sit there with no lollies in the cup if it was put up. I love the novels of Salman Rushdie. We read "The Moor's Last Sigh" a few years ago and it was almost universally disliked. Ah well. Alice used to have a pathological hatred of Ian McEwan saying he understood England as well as she understood the workings of the bogan mind. Me - I'd have preferred not to have read Coehlo. It all comes down to taste. Alice was particularly fussy about what she read in book group - and that is fair enough - but she's not in the group any more to take on other pursuits. I've had a few members of the group say the books are a bit challenging - I point back that book group isn't about reading muck - when they joined they were told that the group has more of a literary bent - deal with it or leave. I'm being a bit more militant about this after that cat book got on the list.
So, what do I dare put up this year. What am I going to champion? I'm already seen as a bit of an egghead when it comes to books and reading. Merijn and I know that we will normally not like each other's choices - she loves Russian Literature - I was 50 pages into Anna Karenina hoping she's throw herself under the train there and then - I loathe it. I love the modern novel - she doesn't - though we sort of met in the middle with Rushdie.
So I'm thinking, and re-thinking - what am I going to champion at our meeting next month.
Here is my short list of considerations - I have to choose two:
Atonement - Ian McEwan
Stellar, stellar book - and not just because of the movie which I adore (even if Keira Knightly is too thin and she is impossibly gorgeous in that green dress). This is probably the best of McEwan - Saturday was okay, I really liked Amsterdam and Enduring Love - Solar was a load of bollox, but Atonement - ah - brilliant. So subtle. He gets the period just right - you want to clobber Briony from the second page, only to get a better picture of her after the events - wondering if she will ever atone for her actions as a child - and the ending is different to the movie too. Just stunning.
Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
Another one of my favorite authors, Faulks is the master of minutiae. A meticulous researcher, Birdsong is possibly the most beautiful novel ever written about WW1 trench warfare. Gut wrenching, gorgeous, sumptuous, sexual - it looks at the hell of war, its consequences and its triumphs. I adore this book - I'm just not sure anybody else will like it.
American Psycho - Brett Easton Ellis
He, he, he. I so want to put this up, but I see a few members of the group walking out in utter disgust. This book is rated R and can't be sold to minors in Australia - it comes wrapped in plastic when sold retail. I read this for my smut course that I did a few years ago (Went back to university to do third year English - the course name was Art, Pornography, Blasphemy and Propaganda) This was on the list - and it was my favorite book of the course. Loved the parody. Love Ellis's easy charm mixed with hyper-violence. Not something to read late at night or when you're alone on the tram with somebody who's a bit loopy. There are parts of it that make you want to throw up. It's cool. Can't see the naysayers liking it, however.
Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides
One of my top three books ever. Pulitzer Prize Winning - an epic book about a person called Cal with a slightly bizarre family arrangement. Looks at Cal's family from his grandparents down to Cal's own life. Rather confronting in parts, brilliantly set in Greece and America with some fantastic characters along the way - heaps to talk about, heaps to think about - and just a magic tale. Like Captain Corelli's Mandolin, you can read and re-read and only get more out of it. Though technically we did it for book group five years ago, I think it's only Georgie and I who are left from the group, so I might chance it as I'm pretty sure Georgie didn't get around to it at the time.
The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
Spanish Author in translation - good popular fiction with a Gothic twist, set in Barcelona. And who says I only choose literature? A great yarn, well set with a great, Poe-ish storyline. Something a bit lighter for consideration. I love Spain, I love Barcelona - and this book takes me back there. And it's about books too - which is always good.
We Need To Talk About Kevin - Lionel Shriver
Other than having an ex called Kevin, I've heard only good things about this book - however after tonight's discussion about how people want to read things that aren't grim, I'm no so sure reading about murdering sociopathic teenager would go down.
Footsucker - Geoff Nicholson
There are two things that might put people off this one - I don't know how easy this champion novel would be to find - it may be out of print by now. It's also about a foot fetishist. As a reflexologist, I sorta get it. Not sure anybody else will appreciate the subtleties - maybe Jonella. It's a cool book. But you don't know whether to be turned on or outraged. Which is half the fun of it.
The Diving Bell and the Butterfly - Jean-Dominique Bauby
Unfortunately I can't put this up as autobiography is banned. But other than it's really short - as the author blinked the text to an assistant, it is a miraculous work of a person overcoming the most horrific of circumstances. A stunning book of great beauty and pathos. But autobiography. Bummer.
I have some decisions to make.
And probably a bit of explaining to do...
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Days without ice cream - 23
Love’s Labours Lost
Old man, deathbed, cried.
Of fate’s cruel hand, joy denied.
Large hands, small dick. Died.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Naming Rites
My phone emitted an electronic beep at some ungodly hour last night.
I ignored it. It wasn't a persistent ring - or in my case, the unrelenting drone of the first thirty seconds of Nirvana's "Feels Like Teen Spirit". It was just some notification. The news could be received in the morning over a bowl of porridge and a triple ristretto.
I went back to sleep.
On rising a few hours later I looked over at my phone. My second cousin's wife had a son. Lovely news. Both mum and baby doing well. A stonking, big nine pounder in the old language. Name. Malcolm Callum Grant.
They called their son Malcolm!
Malcolm!
I have an Uncle Malcolm. He calls himself by another moniker. I don't think anybody has called my uncle Malcolm since he came out of the womb. It's not going to be on his tombstone. It was a daggy name when he was given it some sixty-five years ago.
Oh for goodness sake. Malcolm. Enrol the kid in tap dancing lessons and buy him his first can of petrol and machete now - he's going to be a psychopath. End of story. Surely they're going to call him Callum - or Cal. Surely.....but you never know.
I texted my cousin - who happens to be my favorite cousin and grandmother to little Malcolm. Asked her about the name. "Malcolm?! Is he going to have brothers Trevor and Donald?"
"I know. Heaven help us!" was my cousin's response.
Taken into consideration is the fact that the baby's maternal grandfather is called Malcolm - sort of makes it okay (and mind you - the other grandfather is a Neville - the kid has no chance) - but still. Can't they find the kid his own name? And his initials. M.C.G. Named after the hallowed turf in Richmond where many a football and cricket match is played. Oh, bless.
As a childless woman, I've never had to name a child. I seriously don't know how I'd go.
I name my cars. I've had Edna the EJ Holden and Phoebe the Fiesta (inherited names), Colin the Daihatsu (Colins often have small man syndrome, would have called him Allan but he couldn't make the tea - Allans are often small and they always make the tea). Then there was Andrew the Echo - named after an ex-boyfriend's dangly bits (again associations - like the other Andrew, the Toyota was small but it got me where I needed to go) and now I have Neville the Mazda - suitably named after a middle-aged accountant somewhere - the only Neville I know has silver grey hair - the same colour as my car.
I also have Shirley the GPS - so named after a friend's indominable mother who is scarier than a herd of rampaging elephants - only with a fag in one hand and a pint of bitter in the other. My GPS scares me most of the time - especially when I ignore its instructions to go down Punt Road.
Naming can be hard.
My friend Max and her partner are still trying to find the right name for her daughter who is now a month old. They took their time naming their son too. His name really suits him now. He's going to be cool.
We've been having a few odd conversations on the subject. I was sitting at this hospital with this two day old bundle in my arms and Max went through the long list.
"I don't know why you're asking me this, Max. It's your child. I'll love her regardless of what you call her."
"She's known as Bam Bam at the moment."
"And that might stick. But it won't look good on a passport. You'd get pulled up every time you went through customs with a name like that."
She went through this list of names. Some lovely, classic, easy on the ear names. Others had my eyebrows raising.
"Max - it really is up to you and Ram. Don't ask for my opinion. It's none of my business."
"But you don't mind being used as a sounding board."
"As long as you don't mind getting the brunt of my sense of humour."
I've been getting the odd text since then.
'What do you think of Greta?"
"Smacks of Kingswood Country and kaftan wearing librarians."
"How about Eugenia?"
"Hmm. Bit posh. Not too bad if you're looking to put her through private school."
"Catriona?"
"Tries to hard to hide her cross eyes. Put money away for braces now."
"Laura?"
"Like that one. But it's your kid. You name it. Don't ask for my opinion. I will only end up offending."
It's fun watching people name their children.
Some say absolutely nothing about what the kid will be called. I rather like these people. Others, like my friend Max, will ask for opinions and suggestions.
And what ever I say will normally be wrong.
Then there are the names you dislike by association.
Kevin will always be the slob who collected his fingernail clippings in a jar.
Simon - oh don't get me started on Simons..... in love with their computers for the most part.
Trevor - Named after St Trevor, the patron saint of those who wear socks with sandals.
Julian - Pot smoking lawyer with numerous DUIs under his belt. So far back in the closet he's in Narnia.
Derek - named after a frog's mating call.
There are also the names that have become cliche by over use. Sharon, Tracey, Lisa, Michelle and Narelle are all now in their forties with kids in tow. Practical multi-taskers who really could have done with less common names.
You know that Darren, Mark, Steven and Paul are now hitting forty and wondering when they are going to trade their Commodore in for an E Type Jag or some other penile equivalent.
I used to hate my name - and as I went through school with five other Pandoras I though I was as common as muck. Since leaving Myponga, we Pandoras are a bit rarer. And I don't mind the name. I've grown into it. Just don't call me Pandy or Dora....
It's interesting watching some of the cultural naming that goes about. Having a chat with Dimitra in the office, she said that her daughter would be called after her mother, in line with Greek tradition. Fair enough. That appears to be the norm for some cultures - and good on them.
If I ever had children, I couldn't go the grandaparent route - the grandaughter of Reginald Lancelot, Eunice, Darcy Elliot and Ada Jean - nah, sorry couldn't do that to a child. They're almost Department of Child Welfare worthy names.
But I still wonder about poor little Malcolm.
Why not call him Callum Malcolm? Okay, you lose the cool initials - but still. It's a little more palatable.
Daggy middle names have a bit more kudos. My friend Alice's little boy's middle name is Mungo - named after the patron saint of Glasgow and recalcitrant journalists. Another friend was thinking about giving the middle name of Danger - then Danger would be his middle name... They didn't in the end. It would have set a precedent. What would the second one's middle name be? Trouble? Reckless? Rebel? Late-for-dinner?
And then there are the alternative spellings that appear to be cropping up. The Tiphphannees and Mikaylaahs and Jaaysonns and and Symins. That's just asking for trouble - and the wrath of teachers.
Or the cool but unpronounceable Irish names that were popular a while ago. I'm sure that Naimh, Aoife, Tadhg and Aoibheann will be used to spelling and pronouncing their names here in Australia once they turn five.
And of course the stripper names - the Ambers and Tawnies and Stormies and Misties - just can't be done. Just as Dirk and Roger are porn stars, these girls are fated to be walking around V8 tracks in bikinis. Just as Dawns, Veras and Irenes will always end up working at newsagencies and drycleaners.
I rather like the "supermarket test" that a couple of friend's swear by. Can you shout the name out to a misbehaving three-year-old and not make a mockery of yourself? Names like Robert, Michael, Laura and Ava pass with flying colours. Try whining out Barney, Oscar, Mabel or Bonnie in the aisle or in the park - and either watch a gaggle of three year olds or a pack of dogs turn their heads.
That also goes for what you call siblings. An old workmate related how he'd never been so embarrassed when his friends called out for Jenna and Talia to come in for dinner (think about it....)
And the sibling test. My mate Mack has children Mabel, Michael, Maisie, Mariah and Monroe. It's going to be diabolical when they get to be teenagers and start getting mail.
Ah, it's all too hard.
I wish little Malcolm well. He's going to have his challenges - he's a Libran after all. Being called Malcolm will only add to these challenges.
Oh, if I was to have a child - I've always fancied giving a daughter the middle name of Serendipity. Why? Because any child I have will be a happy accident.
Pand
p.s. Thanks to Patrick Cook's Ultimate Book of Baby Names for the inspiration for this - and if you can track down a copy, you won't be sorry.
I ignored it. It wasn't a persistent ring - or in my case, the unrelenting drone of the first thirty seconds of Nirvana's "Feels Like Teen Spirit". It was just some notification. The news could be received in the morning over a bowl of porridge and a triple ristretto.
I went back to sleep.
On rising a few hours later I looked over at my phone. My second cousin's wife had a son. Lovely news. Both mum and baby doing well. A stonking, big nine pounder in the old language. Name. Malcolm Callum Grant.
They called their son Malcolm!
Malcolm!
I have an Uncle Malcolm. He calls himself by another moniker. I don't think anybody has called my uncle Malcolm since he came out of the womb. It's not going to be on his tombstone. It was a daggy name when he was given it some sixty-five years ago.
Oh for goodness sake. Malcolm. Enrol the kid in tap dancing lessons and buy him his first can of petrol and machete now - he's going to be a psychopath. End of story. Surely they're going to call him Callum - or Cal. Surely.....but you never know.
I texted my cousin - who happens to be my favorite cousin and grandmother to little Malcolm. Asked her about the name. "Malcolm?! Is he going to have brothers Trevor and Donald?"
"I know. Heaven help us!" was my cousin's response.
Taken into consideration is the fact that the baby's maternal grandfather is called Malcolm - sort of makes it okay (and mind you - the other grandfather is a Neville - the kid has no chance) - but still. Can't they find the kid his own name? And his initials. M.C.G. Named after the hallowed turf in Richmond where many a football and cricket match is played. Oh, bless.
As a childless woman, I've never had to name a child. I seriously don't know how I'd go.
I name my cars. I've had Edna the EJ Holden and Phoebe the Fiesta (inherited names), Colin the Daihatsu (Colins often have small man syndrome, would have called him Allan but he couldn't make the tea - Allans are often small and they always make the tea). Then there was Andrew the Echo - named after an ex-boyfriend's dangly bits (again associations - like the other Andrew, the Toyota was small but it got me where I needed to go) and now I have Neville the Mazda - suitably named after a middle-aged accountant somewhere - the only Neville I know has silver grey hair - the same colour as my car.
I also have Shirley the GPS - so named after a friend's indominable mother who is scarier than a herd of rampaging elephants - only with a fag in one hand and a pint of bitter in the other. My GPS scares me most of the time - especially when I ignore its instructions to go down Punt Road.
Naming can be hard.
My friend Max and her partner are still trying to find the right name for her daughter who is now a month old. They took their time naming their son too. His name really suits him now. He's going to be cool.
We've been having a few odd conversations on the subject. I was sitting at this hospital with this two day old bundle in my arms and Max went through the long list.
"I don't know why you're asking me this, Max. It's your child. I'll love her regardless of what you call her."
"She's known as Bam Bam at the moment."
"And that might stick. But it won't look good on a passport. You'd get pulled up every time you went through customs with a name like that."
She went through this list of names. Some lovely, classic, easy on the ear names. Others had my eyebrows raising.
"Max - it really is up to you and Ram. Don't ask for my opinion. It's none of my business."
"But you don't mind being used as a sounding board."
"As long as you don't mind getting the brunt of my sense of humour."
I've been getting the odd text since then.
'What do you think of Greta?"
"Smacks of Kingswood Country and kaftan wearing librarians."
"How about Eugenia?"
"Hmm. Bit posh. Not too bad if you're looking to put her through private school."
"Catriona?"
"Tries to hard to hide her cross eyes. Put money away for braces now."
"Laura?"
"Like that one. But it's your kid. You name it. Don't ask for my opinion. I will only end up offending."
It's fun watching people name their children.
Some say absolutely nothing about what the kid will be called. I rather like these people. Others, like my friend Max, will ask for opinions and suggestions.
And what ever I say will normally be wrong.
Then there are the names you dislike by association.
Kevin will always be the slob who collected his fingernail clippings in a jar.
Simon - oh don't get me started on Simons..... in love with their computers for the most part.
Trevor - Named after St Trevor, the patron saint of those who wear socks with sandals.
Julian - Pot smoking lawyer with numerous DUIs under his belt. So far back in the closet he's in Narnia.
Derek - named after a frog's mating call.
There are also the names that have become cliche by over use. Sharon, Tracey, Lisa, Michelle and Narelle are all now in their forties with kids in tow. Practical multi-taskers who really could have done with less common names.
You know that Darren, Mark, Steven and Paul are now hitting forty and wondering when they are going to trade their Commodore in for an E Type Jag or some other penile equivalent.
I used to hate my name - and as I went through school with five other Pandoras I though I was as common as muck. Since leaving Myponga, we Pandoras are a bit rarer. And I don't mind the name. I've grown into it. Just don't call me Pandy or Dora....
It's interesting watching some of the cultural naming that goes about. Having a chat with Dimitra in the office, she said that her daughter would be called after her mother, in line with Greek tradition. Fair enough. That appears to be the norm for some cultures - and good on them.
If I ever had children, I couldn't go the grandaparent route - the grandaughter of Reginald Lancelot, Eunice, Darcy Elliot and Ada Jean - nah, sorry couldn't do that to a child. They're almost Department of Child Welfare worthy names.
But I still wonder about poor little Malcolm.
Why not call him Callum Malcolm? Okay, you lose the cool initials - but still. It's a little more palatable.
Daggy middle names have a bit more kudos. My friend Alice's little boy's middle name is Mungo - named after the patron saint of Glasgow and recalcitrant journalists. Another friend was thinking about giving the middle name of Danger - then Danger would be his middle name... They didn't in the end. It would have set a precedent. What would the second one's middle name be? Trouble? Reckless? Rebel? Late-for-dinner?
And then there are the alternative spellings that appear to be cropping up. The Tiphphannees and Mikaylaahs and Jaaysonns and and Symins. That's just asking for trouble - and the wrath of teachers.
Or the cool but unpronounceable Irish names that were popular a while ago. I'm sure that Naimh, Aoife, Tadhg and Aoibheann will be used to spelling and pronouncing their names here in Australia once they turn five.
And of course the stripper names - the Ambers and Tawnies and Stormies and Misties - just can't be done. Just as Dirk and Roger are porn stars, these girls are fated to be walking around V8 tracks in bikinis. Just as Dawns, Veras and Irenes will always end up working at newsagencies and drycleaners.
I rather like the "supermarket test" that a couple of friend's swear by. Can you shout the name out to a misbehaving three-year-old and not make a mockery of yourself? Names like Robert, Michael, Laura and Ava pass with flying colours. Try whining out Barney, Oscar, Mabel or Bonnie in the aisle or in the park - and either watch a gaggle of three year olds or a pack of dogs turn their heads.
That also goes for what you call siblings. An old workmate related how he'd never been so embarrassed when his friends called out for Jenna and Talia to come in for dinner (think about it....)
And the sibling test. My mate Mack has children Mabel, Michael, Maisie, Mariah and Monroe. It's going to be diabolical when they get to be teenagers and start getting mail.
Ah, it's all too hard.
I wish little Malcolm well. He's going to have his challenges - he's a Libran after all. Being called Malcolm will only add to these challenges.
Oh, if I was to have a child - I've always fancied giving a daughter the middle name of Serendipity. Why? Because any child I have will be a happy accident.
Pand
p.s. Thanks to Patrick Cook's Ultimate Book of Baby Names for the inspiration for this - and if you can track down a copy, you won't be sorry.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Would you do Shane Warne?
After a day of "Death by Arial 10 Pitch Black", staring at a screen trying to remediate the documentation around a forty-year-old COBOL based Payments system from 9 a.m., I finally submitted my document for feedback at 5.59 p.m. yesterday afternoon. After a few weeks like this, a girl needs a bit of respite. Meeting Jonella for lunch did help break up the day - the rest of it was rather woeful until I walked out the door of Bastard Bank and headed for book group.
Firstly, walking to book group after work I was passed by a group of Hare Krishnas.
The Hare Krishnas always make me smile. They always look so happy, dancing around the streets, clapping and singing. And you have to really like their songs! It's hard to to stuff up the words. Nah, coming out of work today, part of me wanted to join the Hare Krishnas as they made their way down William Street.
I've joined the Hares on their way through the streets in the past for a few minutes, dancing with them in my business suit, handbag flying, singing along with gay abandon. They were a lovely few minutes, before the leader of the group spotted me and shooed me on my way. Even better, I wasn't in any way inebriated. You should try it some time!
Once at book group, things got decidedly better. A glass of sauvignon blanc, some dinner and some wonderful conversation helped revive the spirits.
As it always happens with book group, things went off topic over dinner. Somehow, the conversation drifted from the book to the topic of Shane Warne. How this happened I'm not sure. Something about growing up poor and Elizabeth Hurley and coming from impoverished backgrounds - the novel we read was set in Southern Italy in the 80's.
"Oh, you know - some people just do things for money. Look at Liz Hurley and Shane Warne. They're a nice couple. Lots of money." Blarney piped up.
My roasted chicken breast in proscuitto wasn't looking as nice all of a sudden. There was a collective groan from the table.
"Ew!" groaned Georgie.
"Yuck!" growled Merijn.
"He looks like he's been dipped in fanta." I added.
"I don't think he's that bad. Lots of women think he's alright." said Blarney.
"Must be Blind Freddy's sister to think he's okay. He's dreadful. I'm enduring an endless four year dry spell - I'd rather stay celibate!" I retorted.
A girl has to have her standards...
Quite a bit of conversation followed. It appears the book group has similar taste in men.
There are just some men who the proverbial very long barge pole would not be long enough to touch them with. Shane Warne, it appears, is one of those men.
Some women, and I really have no idea who they are, find this rather effective spin bowler attractive. I can't see it. Most of my book group can't see it, but these women are allegedly out there - Sharon Strzlecki being one of them. (The netballer from Kath and Kim...)
I had a similar conversation a few weeks ago where a friend was saying that women threw themselves at Warnie. I'm not sure I would piss on him if he was on fire - okay, that's a bit strong, I'd throw a bucket of water on him out of human decency. But though of making love to Shane Warne. Sorry. Nup. Turns the stomach.
I know that I have rather dodgy taste in men, as I've written about before. I know that people have different tastes in men - I can see in the attraction in the "sexy ugly man" such as Steve Buscemi, Benecio Del Toro, Gerard Depardieu (before he found the good paddock) - or my favorite drool inducer - Javier Bardem (Placed directly in the bath with Clive Owen - FILTHY - in a very, very good way - oh there's an image :P )
The conversation continued the next morning at work. Arabella, who is currently sitting next to me is five months pregnant and fully hormonal and always up for a giggle. I told her of this conversation and she agreed. Shane Warne. Sorry - nope. Other than he looks like an elongated oompa loompa, his teeth covered in white out and we all know about the hair plugs... Then there's the serial sleazy text messages, the numerous strange encounters with women... oh the list goes on. Would you really want to go there?
You don't know where he's really been...
There are just some men, who by rights, should be removed from the gene pool. Those where there isn't a long enough shitty stick with which you would ever deign to poke them. You have to wonder how some of these men became husbands and had children.
Then again, there is no accounting for some people's tastes or the anti-psychotic meds their doctors put them on...
Here are few of the names that got bandied about.
Enjoy.
Bob Katter
My step-father put it well. "It looks like he's had a shit sandwich stuck under his nose." Loopy, right wing politics aside, it's hard to find any redeeming features in Bob Katter. You know he's going to leave his hat on in bed, along with his socks - you just know it! (another complete turn off....) Probably had a special pillow made with an indent for his Akubra.
Bob Katter had to become a politician - what other profession would take on such a man? It's very hard to find any redeeming features in Bob Katter. Trin's response to his name was something the lines of "I'd rather root a dead roo." Hmm, maybe that's a bit extreme, but he really does have the sex appeal of three-day-old road kill.
Tony Abbott
I have been heard to say, on occasion, for a fifty-something bloke, Tony Abbott doesn't have a bad body. And fair dues - he doesn't. If you could cut off his head and remove his politics, I possibly could go there - that chest hair is divine - but this is my proclivity - don't expect everybody to understand this one. I just have a thing for hairy chests.
The real deal breakers, however. The speedos. Unless you're an Olympic swimmer or a ten year old boy, budgie smugglers are a no-no. Sorry Tony, I know you're a triathlete, but still - NOT IN PUBLIC - cover yourself after your race! Dick stickers are just awful.
Banana hammocks aside (isn't amazing how many euphemisms there are for a humble pair of speedos!), the man has the most odious politics - he is a shining example of why have a separation between Church and State - I just wished he'd remember this more often. He's also backwards, homophobic and generally a complete nonce when it comes to forward thinking. Abbott just has to open his mouth and I want to shoot him. I sound like a bit of a chook farm when he comes on the telly. "F*ck, f*ck, f*ck OFF NOW, TONY!" is normally screamed at the box. Unfortunately, being leader of the opposition, he's on the small screen a lot.
Yelling at him when he's on the television is great - just like calling Telstra when you need an argument - strangely satisfying.
How he was allowed to breed, I'm still unsure. At least his daughters see him for what he is - a lame, daft, churchy loser.
Lleyton Hewitt
Lleyton Hewitt reminds me of the many reasons I left Adelaide - some twenty years ago today (Happy Anniversary, Pand). He gives men from Adelaide a bad name. Tosser. Can't quite put my finger on it - maybe it's the arrogance - or maybe it's just the fact that he's a wanker.
Vladimir Putin
Okay, what is this one out to prove? Why does he take every opportunity to take his shirt off for photo opportunities. He's the leader of the ex-Soviet Union. What right has he got to go shirtless in waders, in Siberia, for the press? Is he out to prove his manliness? John Howard never did this (can you imagine!). This on smacks of FIGJAM. FIGJAM - a lovely acronym for "F*ck I'm good, just ask me. Slightly more worrying is that he has the codes for a hell of a lot of nuclear weapons. Like Tony Abbott - keep your clothes on, please. You may be clever and powerful, but you're not that pretty. (Pale is not always interesting)
Wayne Carey
The Shane Warne of AFL - dear Wayne has moved to Adelaide and gone all quiet. However in the nineties and noughties he was known about town as a bit of a ladies' man. Like Shane Warne, he has that "I don't know what it is but I don't want to go there" look about him. Maybe it's the blonde thing. Maybe it's the fact that he got paid exhorbidant amounts of money to play football and we're envious. There is that "je ne sais quoi" about Wayne Carey that would have me running a mile very quickly in the other direction if he came near me. I have it from sources that he had a lovely body - I'm sure he does/did.
Some could say that there is this country boy charm about him being from Wagga Wagga and all - little do they know what country boys can get up to given the opportunity can get up to (from very limited experience, all enthusiam with little finesse) A masonic friend of mine, a Kangaroos stalwart, reckons that he's a right sweetie - but she's old enough to be his grandmother. Sorry Wayne - like Shane, you're a bit of a no-go area. Besides - being front page news that you shagged your best mate's wife. Deal breaker then and there.
Indiscretion is only tolerable if you're very, very discrete about it.
Andrew Bolt
Oh, where do I start with this one?
Like Tony Abbott, the dreadful right-wing politics, the "I'm so up myself they have to showcase me on a Sunday morning when there should be cartoons on the television" attitude (Is Channel Nine trying to corrupt young children or does Bolt have something very nasty on James Packer and Kym Gyngell - I wonder which one it is?). This man opens his mouth and it's a complete and total passion killer. Besides the fact that he's a crap journalist as proved in open court only last week, there are many, many things that one can take offence with over Andrew Bolt.
Just ask my friend Kath. She LOVES Andrew Bolt... (see the comments in a day or so)
It appears sex appeal and attitude go hand in hand. Hmmm.
Warwick Capper
Oh dear. Warwick Capper. They still wheel him out for reality television shows. I think he goes in the "No idea where he's been, really can't see why I'd want to go there" pile. By his own admission he's cheap and easy. He breaks to of my very firm laws of remotely attractive men. 1) Always disregard anybody who still has a mullet - why would you sleep with anybody with a mullet? The reasoning of up front for action, out back for fun really doesn't relate to hair - it was meant for something else about three foot lower down. Pity nobody told him this. And 2) Men in gold lame? No way! Sorry - that's the realm of aging Eurotrash playboys. Why would a Stop/Slow man from the Gold Coast do that to himself?
Underneath the leopard skin and the gold short-shorts he might be a nice fellow.
Just wouldn't shag him if he was the last man on earth.
Russell Crowe
Our Russell is welcome to go back to New Zealand any time he likes.
In my list of men I'm quite fond of, Kiwis normally rate highly (Jermaine from Flight of the Conchords, Munter from Outrageous Fortune, The All Blacks - PHWOAR!).
Not this one.
Comes down to attitude once again. Attitude and the fact that he's a Rabbitohs supporter.
Too arrogant. Allegedly sings in a band that never should have been recorded. Next.
James Packer
Might be okay if he had a paper bag over his head. Don't care if he's rich. I take exception to the fact that he's concentrated his business interests in the gaming industry. Not pretty. Certainly somebody I wouldn't go near no matter how much money he had.
I have nothing against physically unattractive men - I can't cast stones - I'm no oil painting - but being really honest, if a bloke is kind and warm and decent who cares what he looks like.
James Packer's attitude that disturbs me more.
The fact that he looks a bit like a desicated lizard, just like his father - that doesn't help.
John Howard
I'm still of the firm opinion that John Howard is the least attractive man on the planet. The track suit - worn in over 50 countries. The eyebrows - that he never let his barber trim. The glasses that went out of fashion twenty years ago.
Like Tony Abbott and Andrew Bolt - it's all in the attitude. Go to Parliament House in Canberra - there is a lovely portrait of him with his arm around Jeanette - with that grin of 'She's mine!' Lucky John! Even luckier Jeanette.
She can have him.
I'm sure if there were bloggers thirty years ago when Howard was an up and coming back bencher, there would a blogger out there saying exactly the same things about Little Johnnie as I've extolled about Tony Abbott.
And that has passed a rather pleasant lunch time.
Have I missed anybody? Karl Stefanovic was left off the list as he does have the ability to occasionally take the piss out of himself. Sam Newman was left off because there just aren't the adjectives. There are plenty more out there - these are just my stand outs.
Pandx
Firstly, walking to book group after work I was passed by a group of Hare Krishnas.
The Hare Krishnas always make me smile. They always look so happy, dancing around the streets, clapping and singing. And you have to really like their songs! It's hard to to stuff up the words. Nah, coming out of work today, part of me wanted to join the Hare Krishnas as they made their way down William Street.
I've joined the Hares on their way through the streets in the past for a few minutes, dancing with them in my business suit, handbag flying, singing along with gay abandon. They were a lovely few minutes, before the leader of the group spotted me and shooed me on my way. Even better, I wasn't in any way inebriated. You should try it some time!
Once at book group, things got decidedly better. A glass of sauvignon blanc, some dinner and some wonderful conversation helped revive the spirits.
As it always happens with book group, things went off topic over dinner. Somehow, the conversation drifted from the book to the topic of Shane Warne. How this happened I'm not sure. Something about growing up poor and Elizabeth Hurley and coming from impoverished backgrounds - the novel we read was set in Southern Italy in the 80's.
"Oh, you know - some people just do things for money. Look at Liz Hurley and Shane Warne. They're a nice couple. Lots of money." Blarney piped up.
My roasted chicken breast in proscuitto wasn't looking as nice all of a sudden. There was a collective groan from the table.
"Ew!" groaned Georgie.
"Yuck!" growled Merijn.
"He looks like he's been dipped in fanta." I added.
"I don't think he's that bad. Lots of women think he's alright." said Blarney.
"Must be Blind Freddy's sister to think he's okay. He's dreadful. I'm enduring an endless four year dry spell - I'd rather stay celibate!" I retorted.
A girl has to have her standards...
Quite a bit of conversation followed. It appears the book group has similar taste in men.
There are just some men who the proverbial very long barge pole would not be long enough to touch them with. Shane Warne, it appears, is one of those men.
Some women, and I really have no idea who they are, find this rather effective spin bowler attractive. I can't see it. Most of my book group can't see it, but these women are allegedly out there - Sharon Strzlecki being one of them. (The netballer from Kath and Kim...)
I had a similar conversation a few weeks ago where a friend was saying that women threw themselves at Warnie. I'm not sure I would piss on him if he was on fire - okay, that's a bit strong, I'd throw a bucket of water on him out of human decency. But though of making love to Shane Warne. Sorry. Nup. Turns the stomach.
I know that I have rather dodgy taste in men, as I've written about before. I know that people have different tastes in men - I can see in the attraction in the "sexy ugly man" such as Steve Buscemi, Benecio Del Toro, Gerard Depardieu (before he found the good paddock) - or my favorite drool inducer - Javier Bardem (Placed directly in the bath with Clive Owen - FILTHY - in a very, very good way - oh there's an image :P )
The conversation continued the next morning at work. Arabella, who is currently sitting next to me is five months pregnant and fully hormonal and always up for a giggle. I told her of this conversation and she agreed. Shane Warne. Sorry - nope. Other than he looks like an elongated oompa loompa, his teeth covered in white out and we all know about the hair plugs... Then there's the serial sleazy text messages, the numerous strange encounters with women... oh the list goes on. Would you really want to go there?
You don't know where he's really been...
There are just some men, who by rights, should be removed from the gene pool. Those where there isn't a long enough shitty stick with which you would ever deign to poke them. You have to wonder how some of these men became husbands and had children.
Then again, there is no accounting for some people's tastes or the anti-psychotic meds their doctors put them on...
Here are few of the names that got bandied about.
Enjoy.
Bob Katter
My step-father put it well. "It looks like he's had a shit sandwich stuck under his nose." Loopy, right wing politics aside, it's hard to find any redeeming features in Bob Katter. You know he's going to leave his hat on in bed, along with his socks - you just know it! (another complete turn off....) Probably had a special pillow made with an indent for his Akubra.
Bob Katter had to become a politician - what other profession would take on such a man? It's very hard to find any redeeming features in Bob Katter. Trin's response to his name was something the lines of "I'd rather root a dead roo." Hmm, maybe that's a bit extreme, but he really does have the sex appeal of three-day-old road kill.
Tony Abbott
I have been heard to say, on occasion, for a fifty-something bloke, Tony Abbott doesn't have a bad body. And fair dues - he doesn't. If you could cut off his head and remove his politics, I possibly could go there - that chest hair is divine - but this is my proclivity - don't expect everybody to understand this one. I just have a thing for hairy chests.
The real deal breakers, however. The speedos. Unless you're an Olympic swimmer or a ten year old boy, budgie smugglers are a no-no. Sorry Tony, I know you're a triathlete, but still - NOT IN PUBLIC - cover yourself after your race! Dick stickers are just awful.
Banana hammocks aside (isn't amazing how many euphemisms there are for a humble pair of speedos!), the man has the most odious politics - he is a shining example of why have a separation between Church and State - I just wished he'd remember this more often. He's also backwards, homophobic and generally a complete nonce when it comes to forward thinking. Abbott just has to open his mouth and I want to shoot him. I sound like a bit of a chook farm when he comes on the telly. "F*ck, f*ck, f*ck OFF NOW, TONY!" is normally screamed at the box. Unfortunately, being leader of the opposition, he's on the small screen a lot.
Yelling at him when he's on the television is great - just like calling Telstra when you need an argument - strangely satisfying.
How he was allowed to breed, I'm still unsure. At least his daughters see him for what he is - a lame, daft, churchy loser.
Lleyton Hewitt
Lleyton Hewitt reminds me of the many reasons I left Adelaide - some twenty years ago today (Happy Anniversary, Pand). He gives men from Adelaide a bad name. Tosser. Can't quite put my finger on it - maybe it's the arrogance - or maybe it's just the fact that he's a wanker.
Vladimir Putin
Okay, what is this one out to prove? Why does he take every opportunity to take his shirt off for photo opportunities. He's the leader of the ex-Soviet Union. What right has he got to go shirtless in waders, in Siberia, for the press? Is he out to prove his manliness? John Howard never did this (can you imagine!). This on smacks of FIGJAM. FIGJAM - a lovely acronym for "F*ck I'm good, just ask me. Slightly more worrying is that he has the codes for a hell of a lot of nuclear weapons. Like Tony Abbott - keep your clothes on, please. You may be clever and powerful, but you're not that pretty. (Pale is not always interesting)
Wayne Carey
The Shane Warne of AFL - dear Wayne has moved to Adelaide and gone all quiet. However in the nineties and noughties he was known about town as a bit of a ladies' man. Like Shane Warne, he has that "I don't know what it is but I don't want to go there" look about him. Maybe it's the blonde thing. Maybe it's the fact that he got paid exhorbidant amounts of money to play football and we're envious. There is that "je ne sais quoi" about Wayne Carey that would have me running a mile very quickly in the other direction if he came near me. I have it from sources that he had a lovely body - I'm sure he does/did.
Some could say that there is this country boy charm about him being from Wagga Wagga and all - little do they know what country boys can get up to given the opportunity can get up to (from very limited experience, all enthusiam with little finesse) A masonic friend of mine, a Kangaroos stalwart, reckons that he's a right sweetie - but she's old enough to be his grandmother. Sorry Wayne - like Shane, you're a bit of a no-go area. Besides - being front page news that you shagged your best mate's wife. Deal breaker then and there.
Indiscretion is only tolerable if you're very, very discrete about it.
Andrew Bolt
Oh, where do I start with this one?
Like Tony Abbott, the dreadful right-wing politics, the "I'm so up myself they have to showcase me on a Sunday morning when there should be cartoons on the television" attitude (Is Channel Nine trying to corrupt young children or does Bolt have something very nasty on James Packer and Kym Gyngell - I wonder which one it is?). This man opens his mouth and it's a complete and total passion killer. Besides the fact that he's a crap journalist as proved in open court only last week, there are many, many things that one can take offence with over Andrew Bolt.
Just ask my friend Kath. She LOVES Andrew Bolt... (see the comments in a day or so)
It appears sex appeal and attitude go hand in hand. Hmmm.
Warwick Capper
Oh dear. Warwick Capper. They still wheel him out for reality television shows. I think he goes in the "No idea where he's been, really can't see why I'd want to go there" pile. By his own admission he's cheap and easy. He breaks to of my very firm laws of remotely attractive men. 1) Always disregard anybody who still has a mullet - why would you sleep with anybody with a mullet? The reasoning of up front for action, out back for fun really doesn't relate to hair - it was meant for something else about three foot lower down. Pity nobody told him this. And 2) Men in gold lame? No way! Sorry - that's the realm of aging Eurotrash playboys. Why would a Stop/Slow man from the Gold Coast do that to himself?
Underneath the leopard skin and the gold short-shorts he might be a nice fellow.
Just wouldn't shag him if he was the last man on earth.
Russell Crowe
Our Russell is welcome to go back to New Zealand any time he likes.
In my list of men I'm quite fond of, Kiwis normally rate highly (Jermaine from Flight of the Conchords, Munter from Outrageous Fortune, The All Blacks - PHWOAR!).
Not this one.
Comes down to attitude once again. Attitude and the fact that he's a Rabbitohs supporter.
Too arrogant. Allegedly sings in a band that never should have been recorded. Next.
James Packer
Might be okay if he had a paper bag over his head. Don't care if he's rich. I take exception to the fact that he's concentrated his business interests in the gaming industry. Not pretty. Certainly somebody I wouldn't go near no matter how much money he had.
I have nothing against physically unattractive men - I can't cast stones - I'm no oil painting - but being really honest, if a bloke is kind and warm and decent who cares what he looks like.
James Packer's attitude that disturbs me more.
The fact that he looks a bit like a desicated lizard, just like his father - that doesn't help.
John Howard
I'm still of the firm opinion that John Howard is the least attractive man on the planet. The track suit - worn in over 50 countries. The eyebrows - that he never let his barber trim. The glasses that went out of fashion twenty years ago.
Like Tony Abbott and Andrew Bolt - it's all in the attitude. Go to Parliament House in Canberra - there is a lovely portrait of him with his arm around Jeanette - with that grin of 'She's mine!' Lucky John! Even luckier Jeanette.
She can have him.
I'm sure if there were bloggers thirty years ago when Howard was an up and coming back bencher, there would a blogger out there saying exactly the same things about Little Johnnie as I've extolled about Tony Abbott.
And that has passed a rather pleasant lunch time.
Have I missed anybody? Karl Stefanovic was left off the list as he does have the ability to occasionally take the piss out of himself. Sam Newman was left off because there just aren't the adjectives. There are plenty more out there - these are just my stand outs.
Pandx
Monday, September 26, 2011
Juxtapostions
Viv asked a relevent questions of me at Dream Group on Wednesday.
Do I ever sit still?
The answer to that is sort of. Okay, no. I don't sit still very often. I normally have about five things on the go. I get up in the morning and it's normally full steam ahead until I got to bed 18 hours later. I like to try and be active, walking to work when I can, running, getting out and about.
So, at the moment, I'm cooking, writing, editing, painting my toenails, watching a DVD... at the same time. That's normal.
But sitting still. Nah, I can't even watch television without either knitting or sitting on the computer.
Yeah, I'm one of those people. If I was born twenty years later I'd probably be on Ritalin.
One of the girls in Dream Group piped up that my Mars is in Leo - they don't tend to sit still ever. Maybe there is something in this. Something about always wanting the best and persuing it, the fiery energy of Mars being extenuated by the showiness of Leo. I don't know - I'm only an amateur astrologer. Besides - I have a moon in Cancer. Any fire is washed out by the sookiness of this combination.
Thinking about it, as a child, the thing I remember being told by my mother most was 'Sit still and stop fidgetting."
Okay. I don't sit still very often.
So it goes to pass that in not sitting still, I'm not home much. And this week, I've found myself in some funny places.
Let's start with last Thursday. Normal enough day - especially after the day before where I was considering feigning a migraine or slitting my wrists to get out of work. Thursday was a better day. Thursday I knew that I had to be out of the office for 5 pm so that I could give Em a hand.
Em's my Melbourne kid sister. We know each other from the gym and as she lives nearby, she's a regular movie mate, Pump class companion/adversary (let's see who can pump the heavier weights), confidante and drinking buddy. I feed her cat when she's away. She drops by with milk when I'm sick.
Em got her car licence about six months ago and decided to buy a car. After a trip to Car City a few weeks ago, I left her to it. A week ago she said she'd bought a twenty year old 3 Series Beamer - and she asked could I come with her to pick it up after work? Of course I could. Early night, gets me out of the office - no worries. I asked where she bought the car from.
Somewhere in West Footscray. From a dealer in West Footscray. Make that a car dealer in West Footscray. One has to discern these things.
I wanted to ask two things. Why would you buy a used car from a car dealer in West Footscray (or Footers-cray as it is known to locals)? Secondly. Why would you buy a used BMW from anybody that side of the Westgate.
I should not cast stones. Mea Culpa - I'm a suburb snob.
"You take me to the best places, Em." I said as we alighted the train to a suburb south of purgatory.
"I know. I have another favour to ask."
"Fire away."
"Can you please drive it home for me. I'm a bit scared."
"Sure."
I had no issue with this as all. Em's lack of confidence was fair enough. Going over the Westgate in peak hour can be a little scary at the best of times. She's been driving for six months. Me, I've had a full licence for over twenty five years.
"We're going over there. " She pointed out a car lot, complete with banners and flags across a very busy road about fifteen minutes later as we got off the train.
"Oh. You take me to the bestest places."
"I know," she smiled."Wait til you meet Dim."
Dim, the car salesman, was obviously a Dimitri. Coming from that area, one summises that he's of Greek origin, spends too much time in the gym and probably still lives at home with his mother. I was certainly right on the first to pieces of information. The tattoos snaking up his arm were interesting. Works of art tattoos rather than prison tatts.
Em showed me her car. A bottle green, old-shaped beamer. In reasonable knick, spotless interior. Looked okay from the outside. Would I buy it - no - but then again I have a ten year, clean, protected rating one insurance history and a two year old Mazda two named Neville. Besides, the beamer is a bit big for me, but it's what she wanted.
After a quick look about, Em and Dim finalised the paperwork and we were on our way home. Over the Westgate, I asked her a few questions.
"So, what's the car's name?" I always ask this.
"Justin Beamer."
"Cool. So what does it cost for a woman in her late twenties on her P-Plates to insure a twenty year old car with 200,000 kilometres on the clock."
She told me. Third party, fire and theft was about the same as what I pay for my comprehensive insurance on Neville.
"So, I'm covered to drive Justin?"
"I'm not sure. I'll sort that out when I get home."
"I'm driving an uninsured car? Across the Westgate!"
"Yep. I'll fix all that tonight."
Glumph.
Yoof!
Paid extra special attention to what I was doing. We got back to Richmond half an hour later in one piece. I left Em trying to work out how to lock all of the doors at once. I had to get going. Pinochet had a whipping for me.
Friday night - another completely different scenario, was called back to the Freemasons Hospital to visit a friend who'd just had a baby. I know Max from a job a few years ago - and as she lives around the corner and the hospital is on the way home, popping in was a must.
First stop on the way was Beer Club at Tin Can, String and Whistle for some liquid fortification.
As the ex-president of the Beer Club I have loose visiting rights. I like popping in ever few weeks. It's where I get to hang out with Glen Waverley, Merijn and a few others I've known for years - a simple, social beer before trotting off home. It's also nice dropping by as I appear to get a months quota of blokey bear hugs from old friends.
This evening, I found Wozza, Ding Dong and another old friend sitting about, beers in hand. There were also a couple of others I'd not met. An intense Belgian, a happy Pole and a rather dishy Pom.
I miss Tin Can, String and Whistle. I miss communing with engineers. I miss the utter rubbish they talk. And I really miss the gentle cameraderie of the joint - especially that which is found Beer Club - a gathering spot for every race, creed colour and engineer around. And non-engineers as well.
Besides, I needed a bit of Dutch courage before going to see that baby.
I delayed leaving as long as possible. Finally, I kissed the old friend on the head and watched his ears go pink. This is a natural engineer response. Besides, he deserved it. He looked at me funny when I walked in - in a good way, that look somewhere between pride and attraction that this friend gives me when I walk in the room, but still... one must not think about things like that. Getting out the door, I walked to the Freemasons Hospital.
Ten minutes later, Max's two-day-old daughter was asleep in my arms. Max was sitting on the bed looking rather tired but happy. It appears having a newborn is much preferable to being 42 weeks pregnant. The not so little two-day old (nine pounds) is the spitting image of her three-year-old brother.
"Hello darling (she's yet to be named), this is what beer breath smells like."
"She'll get used to it." said Max.
I love holding babies, especially the really new ones. You never get to hold such potential at any other time. They're so pure and uncorrupted. It's rather unfortunate I'll probably never get the chance to hold one of my own - but like cats, kids are nice to borrow. And you can give them back when the start screaming, puking or get smelly when they're not yours.
Had a lovely chat to Max. I think she's looking forward to being able to have a wine again. We chatted until some more visitors turned up, then I made my way home.
The next juxtapostion was Saturday night. After a day of girlie admin, meditation, a much needed massage, I met Blarney for a film at Crown Casino. Not my choice of cinemas, but convenient for the both of us. Gold Class to see "The Help". Great film, great company. Shitty location.
After the film, we went for a glass of bubbles to discuss life, the film and everything - but we were distracted.
I almost never go to Crown Casino. I can't stand the place. I gamble - I buy a lottery ticket most weeks. I don't mind the odd hand of social poker. But I HATE the casino. Trash, scum and bogans at their worst. However, the people watching is astounding. The sights are incredible. Never, in my life, have I seen so many crimes against fashion in one place. Why is it that women of all ages go out, skirts up around their fannies, cellutite on show, strutting around on too high heels which make them look like trannies in training? It's amazing! Seriously, more orange peel and cottage cheese on display than in a supermarket! Don't these people have friends to tell them where they're going wrong? Oh, hang on - the friends are just as badly dressed as the fashion victims. Lots of Oompa Loompa tans too... The crimes against fashion just went on and on.
So along with the obvious security with the ear pieces and the scowls, the men on bucks nights who really don't give a toss, the hard core gamblers who slink into the casino with the furtive looks of those who are hooked, and the hens nights, and the children - like who the hell brings a child to the casino?
It was all a bit too much.
After half an hour of not knowing whether to shake our heads or laugh, Blarney and I caught respective cabs home.
Sunday fared better. After pump class and a coffee with Jay, I raced home, changed out of my hobbit shoes (Vibram Five Fingers) for a pair of old ASICS and made my way out to the Dandenongs to meet the girls.
Kez and I decided to walk up the Lyrebird Track rather than take the stairs. Caught up with all of her news on the way up between gasps for air, then chatted with Trin on the way down, then had yet another coffee and drove home.
And then the most surprising juxtaposition of all. After I don't kow how many weeks, I had the afternoon at home to myself.
I've worked out it's been over three months since I've had an afternoon off. No visiting Blarney, no heading somewhere for a run, no meeting friends for a film, no being interstate, no helping people with things.
I had the afternoon all to myself.
Okay, it's a bit obvious. I'm not home much. I keep really busy. I spent the time dusting, writing, cooking, catching up on Big Love and Being Human. I cooked myself a really nice dinner. I finally watched Million Dollar Baby (superb film). I went to bed early.
And strangely, I didn't feel like I've often felt having such a day. I didn't feel lonely.
I'll admit it. I don't always like coming home to an empty flat. But sometimes, having the space is wonderful.
After a few days filled with so many varied experiences, knowing I have a messy flat to return for a bit of solitude is a lovely thing.
I just hope it wont be another three months until I get the chance to do this again.
Do I ever sit still?
The answer to that is sort of. Okay, no. I don't sit still very often. I normally have about five things on the go. I get up in the morning and it's normally full steam ahead until I got to bed 18 hours later. I like to try and be active, walking to work when I can, running, getting out and about.
So, at the moment, I'm cooking, writing, editing, painting my toenails, watching a DVD... at the same time. That's normal.
But sitting still. Nah, I can't even watch television without either knitting or sitting on the computer.
Yeah, I'm one of those people. If I was born twenty years later I'd probably be on Ritalin.
One of the girls in Dream Group piped up that my Mars is in Leo - they don't tend to sit still ever. Maybe there is something in this. Something about always wanting the best and persuing it, the fiery energy of Mars being extenuated by the showiness of Leo. I don't know - I'm only an amateur astrologer. Besides - I have a moon in Cancer. Any fire is washed out by the sookiness of this combination.
Thinking about it, as a child, the thing I remember being told by my mother most was 'Sit still and stop fidgetting."
Okay. I don't sit still very often.
So it goes to pass that in not sitting still, I'm not home much. And this week, I've found myself in some funny places.
Let's start with last Thursday. Normal enough day - especially after the day before where I was considering feigning a migraine or slitting my wrists to get out of work. Thursday was a better day. Thursday I knew that I had to be out of the office for 5 pm so that I could give Em a hand.
Em's my Melbourne kid sister. We know each other from the gym and as she lives nearby, she's a regular movie mate, Pump class companion/adversary (let's see who can pump the heavier weights), confidante and drinking buddy. I feed her cat when she's away. She drops by with milk when I'm sick.
Em got her car licence about six months ago and decided to buy a car. After a trip to Car City a few weeks ago, I left her to it. A week ago she said she'd bought a twenty year old 3 Series Beamer - and she asked could I come with her to pick it up after work? Of course I could. Early night, gets me out of the office - no worries. I asked where she bought the car from.
Somewhere in West Footscray. From a dealer in West Footscray. Make that a car dealer in West Footscray. One has to discern these things.
I wanted to ask two things. Why would you buy a used car from a car dealer in West Footscray (or Footers-cray as it is known to locals)? Secondly. Why would you buy a used BMW from anybody that side of the Westgate.
I should not cast stones. Mea Culpa - I'm a suburb snob.
"You take me to the best places, Em." I said as we alighted the train to a suburb south of purgatory.
"I know. I have another favour to ask."
"Fire away."
"Can you please drive it home for me. I'm a bit scared."
"Sure."
I had no issue with this as all. Em's lack of confidence was fair enough. Going over the Westgate in peak hour can be a little scary at the best of times. She's been driving for six months. Me, I've had a full licence for over twenty five years.
"We're going over there. " She pointed out a car lot, complete with banners and flags across a very busy road about fifteen minutes later as we got off the train.
"Oh. You take me to the bestest places."
"I know," she smiled."Wait til you meet Dim."
Dim, the car salesman, was obviously a Dimitri. Coming from that area, one summises that he's of Greek origin, spends too much time in the gym and probably still lives at home with his mother. I was certainly right on the first to pieces of information. The tattoos snaking up his arm were interesting. Works of art tattoos rather than prison tatts.
Em showed me her car. A bottle green, old-shaped beamer. In reasonable knick, spotless interior. Looked okay from the outside. Would I buy it - no - but then again I have a ten year, clean, protected rating one insurance history and a two year old Mazda two named Neville. Besides, the beamer is a bit big for me, but it's what she wanted.
After a quick look about, Em and Dim finalised the paperwork and we were on our way home. Over the Westgate, I asked her a few questions.
"So, what's the car's name?" I always ask this.
"Justin Beamer."
"Cool. So what does it cost for a woman in her late twenties on her P-Plates to insure a twenty year old car with 200,000 kilometres on the clock."
She told me. Third party, fire and theft was about the same as what I pay for my comprehensive insurance on Neville.
"So, I'm covered to drive Justin?"
"I'm not sure. I'll sort that out when I get home."
"I'm driving an uninsured car? Across the Westgate!"
"Yep. I'll fix all that tonight."
Glumph.
Yoof!
Paid extra special attention to what I was doing. We got back to Richmond half an hour later in one piece. I left Em trying to work out how to lock all of the doors at once. I had to get going. Pinochet had a whipping for me.
Friday night - another completely different scenario, was called back to the Freemasons Hospital to visit a friend who'd just had a baby. I know Max from a job a few years ago - and as she lives around the corner and the hospital is on the way home, popping in was a must.
First stop on the way was Beer Club at Tin Can, String and Whistle for some liquid fortification.
As the ex-president of the Beer Club I have loose visiting rights. I like popping in ever few weeks. It's where I get to hang out with Glen Waverley, Merijn and a few others I've known for years - a simple, social beer before trotting off home. It's also nice dropping by as I appear to get a months quota of blokey bear hugs from old friends.
This evening, I found Wozza, Ding Dong and another old friend sitting about, beers in hand. There were also a couple of others I'd not met. An intense Belgian, a happy Pole and a rather dishy Pom.
I miss Tin Can, String and Whistle. I miss communing with engineers. I miss the utter rubbish they talk. And I really miss the gentle cameraderie of the joint - especially that which is found Beer Club - a gathering spot for every race, creed colour and engineer around. And non-engineers as well.
Besides, I needed a bit of Dutch courage before going to see that baby.
I delayed leaving as long as possible. Finally, I kissed the old friend on the head and watched his ears go pink. This is a natural engineer response. Besides, he deserved it. He looked at me funny when I walked in - in a good way, that look somewhere between pride and attraction that this friend gives me when I walk in the room, but still... one must not think about things like that. Getting out the door, I walked to the Freemasons Hospital.
Ten minutes later, Max's two-day-old daughter was asleep in my arms. Max was sitting on the bed looking rather tired but happy. It appears having a newborn is much preferable to being 42 weeks pregnant. The not so little two-day old (nine pounds) is the spitting image of her three-year-old brother.
"Hello darling (she's yet to be named), this is what beer breath smells like."
"She'll get used to it." said Max.
I love holding babies, especially the really new ones. You never get to hold such potential at any other time. They're so pure and uncorrupted. It's rather unfortunate I'll probably never get the chance to hold one of my own - but like cats, kids are nice to borrow. And you can give them back when the start screaming, puking or get smelly when they're not yours.
Had a lovely chat to Max. I think she's looking forward to being able to have a wine again. We chatted until some more visitors turned up, then I made my way home.
The next juxtapostion was Saturday night. After a day of girlie admin, meditation, a much needed massage, I met Blarney for a film at Crown Casino. Not my choice of cinemas, but convenient for the both of us. Gold Class to see "The Help". Great film, great company. Shitty location.
After the film, we went for a glass of bubbles to discuss life, the film and everything - but we were distracted.
I almost never go to Crown Casino. I can't stand the place. I gamble - I buy a lottery ticket most weeks. I don't mind the odd hand of social poker. But I HATE the casino. Trash, scum and bogans at their worst. However, the people watching is astounding. The sights are incredible. Never, in my life, have I seen so many crimes against fashion in one place. Why is it that women of all ages go out, skirts up around their fannies, cellutite on show, strutting around on too high heels which make them look like trannies in training? It's amazing! Seriously, more orange peel and cottage cheese on display than in a supermarket! Don't these people have friends to tell them where they're going wrong? Oh, hang on - the friends are just as badly dressed as the fashion victims. Lots of Oompa Loompa tans too... The crimes against fashion just went on and on.
So along with the obvious security with the ear pieces and the scowls, the men on bucks nights who really don't give a toss, the hard core gamblers who slink into the casino with the furtive looks of those who are hooked, and the hens nights, and the children - like who the hell brings a child to the casino?
It was all a bit too much.
After half an hour of not knowing whether to shake our heads or laugh, Blarney and I caught respective cabs home.
Sunday fared better. After pump class and a coffee with Jay, I raced home, changed out of my hobbit shoes (Vibram Five Fingers) for a pair of old ASICS and made my way out to the Dandenongs to meet the girls.
Kez and I decided to walk up the Lyrebird Track rather than take the stairs. Caught up with all of her news on the way up between gasps for air, then chatted with Trin on the way down, then had yet another coffee and drove home.
And then the most surprising juxtaposition of all. After I don't kow how many weeks, I had the afternoon at home to myself.
I've worked out it's been over three months since I've had an afternoon off. No visiting Blarney, no heading somewhere for a run, no meeting friends for a film, no being interstate, no helping people with things.
I had the afternoon all to myself.
Okay, it's a bit obvious. I'm not home much. I keep really busy. I spent the time dusting, writing, cooking, catching up on Big Love and Being Human. I cooked myself a really nice dinner. I finally watched Million Dollar Baby (superb film). I went to bed early.
And strangely, I didn't feel like I've often felt having such a day. I didn't feel lonely.
I'll admit it. I don't always like coming home to an empty flat. But sometimes, having the space is wonderful.
After a few days filled with so many varied experiences, knowing I have a messy flat to return for a bit of solitude is a lovely thing.
I just hope it wont be another three months until I get the chance to do this again.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Neville
As a part of the reinvention of Pandora, finding a vehicle for the new and improved Pandora was coming imminent.
Actually, it was more the fact that Andrew, my old, trusty Echo was going to start costing me a lot of money - and being an eleven year old Toyota, though as a reliable as a Tony Abbott diatribe on the carbon tax, it was going to need a new clutch and various other large mechanical jobs in the next year.
Besides - I am the new and improved Pandora, time for a new and improved car.
For the last year I've been hemming and hawing about trading in the Echo for something a bit more modern. A car that I didn't have to stop and pull the key out of the ignition to get to the boot. A car which had a few mod cons like electric windows and maybe even power steering (though the Echo was pretty light, it still gave you a work out going round small roundabouts.) A car that had a few more safety features than a working brake light. A car that would suit my new improved self. After nearly seven years, it was time to shake my Toyota driving persona into something a bit more street credible.
I've always loved the Mazda 2 Maxx. They're cute. They're zippy. They have a great shape. They run as well as Toyota. And though there are tonnes of them on the road, they are still a bit unexpected as the Maxx has the spoiler and the alloy wheels.
Scanning back to December last year when Tin Can, String and Whistle gave me the flick, I remember sitting in the room with Popeye and the HR girl looking at my payout figure and stating "That's a Mazda 2 for me. A Mazda two with mags and a spoiler."
Unfortunately I had to use most of that money to live on, but the dream of the Mazda 2 remained.
Scanning the car sales pages online a few weeks ago there was this add for a dealer second hand car. Two years old. Silver grey. Spoiler. Alloy wheels. 29000 kms on the clock. Clean drive, no accidents recorded. Dealer car. RACV approved. Five doors - brilliant - it means I can put Mum in the back.
The model I wanted (Mazda 2 Maxx). The right price. Pretty much the right everything.
I put in an enquiry and a nice, older car salesman called me back the following morning. I said I'd be out on the weekend, but don't count on my buying it - I'm more likely to buy in a few months, but I'd love a look. Sure he said. He sounded like a good bloke. Not a dud. I don't like salesmen at the best of times, but this one sounded alright.
Sunday came, I braved Richmond traffic (and the stupid people who tried to get in to see the houses of "The Block" which is situated down the road) and drove out to Mulgrave.
The car salesman, Chris, was a joy. Not pushy, friendly and relaxed. He took me over to the car and I did my bestest "Dagenham Five Step " (how you're taught to look over a car in England.)
I had a look over the car. I asked a few pointed questions. Kicked the tyres. Looked under the bonnet, in the boot, went up and down over the car.
"You ask a lot of questions." said Chris.
"I worked as a car buyer for a fleet company in England."
"Oh. You know what you want?"
"Yep."
"You want to test drive it?"
"Yep."
"Half an hour enough?"
"Yep - as long as you have no issue with me taking it down the Monash."
"Not at all."
It was love at first sight. For a two-year-old car it's practically unmarked. One or two spots in the duco. Drives like a dream. It has power steering and lots of air bags and keyless entry and cup holders and alloys and the spoiler I wanted. And a six stacker CD payer which does MP3s too - and stereo controls on the steering wheels.
Okay, I wanted a black one when I put out my wish list - but black ones are hard to keep clean. I've always had white cars, over white cars. No more goody, goody image. But this silver car is sexy and understated.
After leaving Mr Chris with a deposit, I went and visited a friend and started to panic.
What had I done?
I'd bought a car!
The insurance, the e-tag for the tolls, the rego, the car loan - all sorted in a lunchtime during the week. I asked a friend about taking Andrew off my hands - he declined so I traded him in. Could have got more if I sold him privately, but heaven knows how long that would have taken.
It's all sorted. Yesterday afternoon I waved goodbye to Andrew with a little regret. It was like leaving your dog at the vet to get rehoused or put down. I hope he goes to a good family - he's been a great car.
I am now the owner of a two year old Mazda 2 Maxx. It's me, saying to the universe, "Keep me gainfully employed, please." and, "See, I do have some sort of sex appeal and street cred!."
And as for the name...
Well, I had Colin the Diahatsu Centro with the 0.65 litre engine a few years ago. Colin's always appear to have "small man syndrome" or mother issues. I would have called the car Allan, but Allan always make the tea - and a Diahatsu can't make tea. My mother loved that car. I left her with him when I went and lived in Greece for a few months - the perfect runabout, but she would have been screwed if she hit a roo on her way to the Victor Harbor Woolies. Colin was just a lawnmower with a tinfoil shell.
Then there was Andrew the Toyota. Andrew was named after an ex's wedding tackle. Andrew was small, but got you where you needed to go.
Yes, I'm a disgrace - but I didn't name my exes tackle. Honest.
So what do you call a silver grey Mazda 2, with alloys and a spoiler.
Dennis came to mind. But Dennis will be reserved for when I get a black car. Black cars are hot - like an old workmate of mine, who is just lovely.
We discussed it at work. What about Trevor? Nope, too many uncles called Trevor - not particularly reliable. Kevin - hell no! Last bloke I went out with was a Kevin - bad name, bad move, dreadful associations. Malcolm? Nope - my father's brother (who also has a brother called Trevor too - can't name cars after family members.) Donald - nope, my step-dad's feral brother who my Mum won't have in the house. Steve? Rodger? Randall? Porn Star.
Peregrine? Tarquin? Rupert? Nope. The car isn't going to be into Shirley Bassey and Barbra Streisand.
Then the name Neville came up. I wanted to say that Neville was the concrete aboriginal on "Kingswood Country" but I thought the better of it. I was at work. Can't say things like that.
But Neville sort of rang true. The only Neville I know is my cousin's first ex-husband - and he's okay. Laid back, killer sense of humour when you get to know him. Quiet, understated, sort of respectable, but there is a bit more going on under the surface.
Neville it is.
Okay, I name my cars after middle-aged accountants (or in this case a greying police prosecutor from Mount Gambier)
Neville it is.
Long may Neville terrorise the roads of Richmond - and universe, please keep me gainfully and properly employed so I can pay him off quickly.
Actually, it was more the fact that Andrew, my old, trusty Echo was going to start costing me a lot of money - and being an eleven year old Toyota, though as a reliable as a Tony Abbott diatribe on the carbon tax, it was going to need a new clutch and various other large mechanical jobs in the next year.
Besides - I am the new and improved Pandora, time for a new and improved car.
For the last year I've been hemming and hawing about trading in the Echo for something a bit more modern. A car that I didn't have to stop and pull the key out of the ignition to get to the boot. A car which had a few mod cons like electric windows and maybe even power steering (though the Echo was pretty light, it still gave you a work out going round small roundabouts.) A car that had a few more safety features than a working brake light. A car that would suit my new improved self. After nearly seven years, it was time to shake my Toyota driving persona into something a bit more street credible.
I've always loved the Mazda 2 Maxx. They're cute. They're zippy. They have a great shape. They run as well as Toyota. And though there are tonnes of them on the road, they are still a bit unexpected as the Maxx has the spoiler and the alloy wheels.
Scanning back to December last year when Tin Can, String and Whistle gave me the flick, I remember sitting in the room with Popeye and the HR girl looking at my payout figure and stating "That's a Mazda 2 for me. A Mazda two with mags and a spoiler."
Unfortunately I had to use most of that money to live on, but the dream of the Mazda 2 remained.
Scanning the car sales pages online a few weeks ago there was this add for a dealer second hand car. Two years old. Silver grey. Spoiler. Alloy wheels. 29000 kms on the clock. Clean drive, no accidents recorded. Dealer car. RACV approved. Five doors - brilliant - it means I can put Mum in the back.
The model I wanted (Mazda 2 Maxx). The right price. Pretty much the right everything.
I put in an enquiry and a nice, older car salesman called me back the following morning. I said I'd be out on the weekend, but don't count on my buying it - I'm more likely to buy in a few months, but I'd love a look. Sure he said. He sounded like a good bloke. Not a dud. I don't like salesmen at the best of times, but this one sounded alright.
Sunday came, I braved Richmond traffic (and the stupid people who tried to get in to see the houses of "The Block" which is situated down the road) and drove out to Mulgrave.
The car salesman, Chris, was a joy. Not pushy, friendly and relaxed. He took me over to the car and I did my bestest "Dagenham Five Step " (how you're taught to look over a car in England.)
I had a look over the car. I asked a few pointed questions. Kicked the tyres. Looked under the bonnet, in the boot, went up and down over the car.
"You ask a lot of questions." said Chris.
"I worked as a car buyer for a fleet company in England."
"Oh. You know what you want?"
"Yep."
"You want to test drive it?"
"Yep."
"Half an hour enough?"
"Yep - as long as you have no issue with me taking it down the Monash."
"Not at all."
It was love at first sight. For a two-year-old car it's practically unmarked. One or two spots in the duco. Drives like a dream. It has power steering and lots of air bags and keyless entry and cup holders and alloys and the spoiler I wanted. And a six stacker CD payer which does MP3s too - and stereo controls on the steering wheels.
Okay, I wanted a black one when I put out my wish list - but black ones are hard to keep clean. I've always had white cars, over white cars. No more goody, goody image. But this silver car is sexy and understated.
After leaving Mr Chris with a deposit, I went and visited a friend and started to panic.
What had I done?
I'd bought a car!
The insurance, the e-tag for the tolls, the rego, the car loan - all sorted in a lunchtime during the week. I asked a friend about taking Andrew off my hands - he declined so I traded him in. Could have got more if I sold him privately, but heaven knows how long that would have taken.
It's all sorted. Yesterday afternoon I waved goodbye to Andrew with a little regret. It was like leaving your dog at the vet to get rehoused or put down. I hope he goes to a good family - he's been a great car.
I am now the owner of a two year old Mazda 2 Maxx. It's me, saying to the universe, "Keep me gainfully employed, please." and, "See, I do have some sort of sex appeal and street cred!."
And as for the name...
Well, I had Colin the Diahatsu Centro with the 0.65 litre engine a few years ago. Colin's always appear to have "small man syndrome" or mother issues. I would have called the car Allan, but Allan always make the tea - and a Diahatsu can't make tea. My mother loved that car. I left her with him when I went and lived in Greece for a few months - the perfect runabout, but she would have been screwed if she hit a roo on her way to the Victor Harbor Woolies. Colin was just a lawnmower with a tinfoil shell.
Then there was Andrew the Toyota. Andrew was named after an ex's wedding tackle. Andrew was small, but got you where you needed to go.
Yes, I'm a disgrace - but I didn't name my exes tackle. Honest.
So what do you call a silver grey Mazda 2, with alloys and a spoiler.
Dennis came to mind. But Dennis will be reserved for when I get a black car. Black cars are hot - like an old workmate of mine, who is just lovely.
We discussed it at work. What about Trevor? Nope, too many uncles called Trevor - not particularly reliable. Kevin - hell no! Last bloke I went out with was a Kevin - bad name, bad move, dreadful associations. Malcolm? Nope - my father's brother (who also has a brother called Trevor too - can't name cars after family members.) Donald - nope, my step-dad's feral brother who my Mum won't have in the house. Steve? Rodger? Randall? Porn Star.
Peregrine? Tarquin? Rupert? Nope. The car isn't going to be into Shirley Bassey and Barbra Streisand.
Then the name Neville came up. I wanted to say that Neville was the concrete aboriginal on "Kingswood Country" but I thought the better of it. I was at work. Can't say things like that.
But Neville sort of rang true. The only Neville I know is my cousin's first ex-husband - and he's okay. Laid back, killer sense of humour when you get to know him. Quiet, understated, sort of respectable, but there is a bit more going on under the surface.
Neville it is.
Okay, I name my cars after middle-aged accountants (or in this case a greying police prosecutor from Mount Gambier)
Neville it is.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
An Act of Devotion
I am of the firm opinion that having somebody make you a birthday cake with smarties on top is one of the most wonderful acts of devotion that you can bestow upon a person. I have told my friends this and they appear to not mind when birthday's come around that I make a cake - and I have to make the cake - none of this bought rubbish, and decorate it myself.
My other admission is that I'm crap at decorating cakes. I'm not a bad cook - I'd never make Masterchef, but I'm certainly not the world's worst cook either. I really love cooking - it's one of my greatest joys.
So when Glen Waverley turned 40 a few weeks ago, I promised him a cake. And I said I'd make him a cake with a Porsche on top. Why? Well, Glen Waverley loves Porsches. You can be wandering along the street and you will hear the loud hum of some heavy petrolled engine in the distance and his neck cranes, a loping smile comes on his lips and for the next 20 minutes you will extolled the virtues of the car, it's turning circle, how the door jambs click... I sit there and compose my shopping list while he does this. But it's his great love. Bless.
Glen Waverley also owns a Porsche - a yellow one which is in storage back in the Netherlands. In my humble opinion, he payed a lot of money for a second hand car that lives in a shed on the other side of the world - but it makes him happy, and that makes me happy.
So today is Glen Waverley's belated birthday party today. I made the cake. It didn't rise properly, but it will taste okay. I iced it this morning in my normal fashion. It's so not a birthday cake without smarties - well in this case, M&Ms on top.
Here is the result - complete with $12 of M&Ms.... And the writing icing.... it's awful to use - besides, I have the handwriting of a left-handed doctor at the best of times.
I gather I will be a spot of trouble once again.
And looking at it with fresh eyes, it sort of looks like a Datsun 180B - not a Porsche. Oh well, it's the thought that counts.
My other admission is that I'm crap at decorating cakes. I'm not a bad cook - I'd never make Masterchef, but I'm certainly not the world's worst cook either. I really love cooking - it's one of my greatest joys.
So when Glen Waverley turned 40 a few weeks ago, I promised him a cake. And I said I'd make him a cake with a Porsche on top. Why? Well, Glen Waverley loves Porsches. You can be wandering along the street and you will hear the loud hum of some heavy petrolled engine in the distance and his neck cranes, a loping smile comes on his lips and for the next 20 minutes you will extolled the virtues of the car, it's turning circle, how the door jambs click... I sit there and compose my shopping list while he does this. But it's his great love. Bless.
Glen Waverley also owns a Porsche - a yellow one which is in storage back in the Netherlands. In my humble opinion, he payed a lot of money for a second hand car that lives in a shed on the other side of the world - but it makes him happy, and that makes me happy.
So today is Glen Waverley's belated birthday party today. I made the cake. It didn't rise properly, but it will taste okay. I iced it this morning in my normal fashion. It's so not a birthday cake without smarties - well in this case, M&Ms on top.
Here is the result - complete with $12 of M&Ms.... And the writing icing.... it's awful to use - besides, I have the handwriting of a left-handed doctor at the best of times.
And looking at it with fresh eyes, it sort of looks like a Datsun 180B - not a Porsche. Oh well, it's the thought that counts.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Much Excitement about Feets
I really love feets. I love feets, not in a kinky way, but I love feets all the same. Feets are wonderful. Feets support us. Feets are our connection to the earth. Feets are just lovely. Feets, like beer, are my friend. I particularly love clean feets that don't smell that much that aren't all crusty. Soft feets are the best.
Why?
Because I am a reflexologist in my spare time. I get to play with lots of feets. If you don't love feet, you'll never make a good reflexologist. Reflexologists tend to call them feets - rather than feet. One feet, two feets. None of this popular, one foot, two feet. It's feets - it makes them sound a lot more fun than they really are.
Reflexologists have a language of their own. We do feet swaps (Where one reflexologist treats another and then vice versa - also known as a contra), we talk about meridians and crunchies and hot spots and cracklings and caterpillars. Not that we can talk to the outside world like that. If we did, we'd be locked up.
Also, reflexology isn't something that's widely practiced in Australia. In Europe, it has a wide and well known following. In Asia it is commonplace. In Australia, tell somebody you're a reflexologist and they run a mile thinking you're going to poke something up their rectal cavity with a sharp stick.
Reflexology is my preferred modality. When I practice, I tend to mix it in with a bit of reiki and reference point therapy for good measure - and with very good results. I've been working on friends for years with this combined method with some wonderful results. Reflexology is guaranteed to relax and rejuvenate - I've never had an unhappy client.
And after eleven years, I have found a decent reflexologist - in Melbourne! And there is much rejoicing around the place. A hell of a lot of rejoicing.
It all started at work last week, another word nerd on the project and I were talking whilst making a cup of tea. I asked Jonella what she did the evening before and it turned out she did a feet swap. My eyes lit up.
"You're a reflexologist?!"
"You know what a feet swap is?!"
"Of course - I'm a reflexologist too!"
And we jumped and danced around the kitchen like a midget on the Spinal Tap set. I said that there was much rejoicing.
It's like finding the Promised Land after forty years in the wilderness.
Jonella is my work buddy. We're quite similar in may ways - both in our early forties, word nerds, having worked all around the city and travelled over the world. We've both got eclectic tastes and have a rather pragmatic view of the world - and we're both reflexologists. Yippee!
Another thing that alternative therapists won't tell you. Most of us will only get a treatment as a contra - gaining a treatment by working on another practitioner - we're all a bit tight like that. Over the years I've searched high and low for a reflexologist to do contras with. I rather begrudgingly pay for a monthly massage off an excellent massage therapist - it keeps me sane and balanced, but reflexology - finding a reflexologist to contra with was like finding Tony Abbott's human side or Julia Gillard's charm - next to impossible. I've never payed for feets treatments. I don't know of a sane reflexologist who would. When I left London, I left all my foot friends behind - and it's a bit hard to travel so far for a foot session.
I've contra'd out my reflexology skills for all sorts of things over the years - dinner, having my tax done, reiki sessions, having the odd piece of clothing taken in, you know - the odd jobs that people do on the side. My favorite contra buddy is my personal trainer - I swap massages and feet sessions for personal training on a regular basis. The barter system is alive and well.
Anyway, Jonella and I made an appointment for last night for the contra.
We found out that we work very differently - but this is not a bad thing. Jonella's a by-the-book reflexologist with an excellent way about her. Me - I work with energetics - picking up all sorts of things about her, much to Jonella's amazement. "How do you know that?" she'd yelp?
"Inverted little toenail....pouching on the arch....crunchy bit here..... hot spot there." After fifteen years of practice I've seen a lot of feet - and I'm very intuitive. I can normally tell what your bowel motions and menstrual cycle are doing. I know if you have your wisdom teeth, tonsils and appendix. I know about old broken bone, propensitiy for chest and bladder infections. I know when you need an eye test or if you had grommits in your ears as a kid. There is no hiding. All of this can be a bit confronting if you've never experienced this - but I mean no harm - and the information goes no further than the treatment room.
After the treatment, we swapped. I got my feets done. Pandora was in BLISS!
We related war stories. When I learned reflexology, I was taught by a mad Liverpudlian in London. The first test we had was to kiss our client's big toe. You have to remember that you ask your client to wash their feet before you start, after which you go over them with antibacterial wipes. They're just a bit of skin. Jonella blanched at this - then I asked her to think about all the places her mouth had been. She blushed, then agreed that there was a good point to that. My Liverpudlian teacher's thought behind this was if you couldn't kiss, or indeed bite a big toe of a clean foot, you had no business being a reflexologist.
And when you think about it - washed and wiped, what is the difference between kissing a foot or kissing a mouth?
After the treatment, both of us were all smooshie - reflexologist term for very relaxed.
I slept like a baby last night - almost a perfect night sleep. This morning I woke with a slight headache - common after a treatment - it normally means that there's a bit of a healing crisis going on. Speaking to Jonella later in the day she said the same thing - great sleep, a little whooshy (another reflexology term)
Most of all, we're both greatful we've found a very rare commodity in Melbourne.
Another Feets person.
There will be more rejoicing same time, next month.
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