The Lost Weekend - Part One

I have two very different blog posts to write about this last weekend.

One is about running and redemption.

One is about solitude and experience.

I had big plans for this weekend, looking forward to spending time with an old friend, sharing what Sydney had to offer. Mariah, one of my oldest friends from my university days, was going to be in town on a conference. We'd booked a double room and were both looking forward to a night at a decent restaurant and a bit of luxury. Mariah's a single mum with an autistic son. Nights away are rare for her.

Unfortunately, plans at her end went by the wayside with her respite care for her son falling through, meaning she had to go back to Brisbane early, leaving me on my own for a day.

Okay, no biggie - but the disappointment of my 'birthday weekend" not going to plan was palpable. I had a week to get used to the idea that I would be on my own for this time, but the disappointment wasn't shifting.

So Friday came - my planned last day off until the rest of the year. I got up early to get the plane, stowed the car at one of the car parking places near the airport, boarded and pretty much everything was to plan - although the plane was delayed for an hour due to some slacker not making the gate in time. We went back to the terminal from the runway and picked him up - the sheepish passenger doing the walk of shame down to the very back of the plane.

The flight was non-descript until we reached the outskirts of Sydney when the cabin crew were ordered to take their seats immediately. Okay, never a good omen.

What followed was probably the most terrifying forty-five minutes of my life.

I'm a seasoned flyer and don't have any issues on planes. On Friday, Sydney was being pummelled by 100 kilometre an hour winds. The plane was bounced all over the sky on the final approach. Nearing the airport we made our way into land, you could feel the strain on the plane. The runway in sight, the plane banked steeply to the the right and went back up into another turbulent holding pattern.

To say the last part of the flight was awful is an understatement. With passengers holding sick bags, scared, screaming kids and silence from the cockpit, we tried once again to land - thankfully this time, without error. Needless to say, I arrived in Sydney disappointed and now very shaken.

On the good side of things, Mariah and my hotel room was booked and paid for. Arriving at the Swissotel in the city centre, I was delighted to find out we'd been upgraded to the executive floors - a view of Centrepoint Tower and a bit more space. It was lovely. It went a little way into unfraying the nerves.

A medicinal brandy, a proper lunch and some fresh air and things began to feel a bit more normal. I've never felt like I was going to die on a flight before. It's the first time I've had my mortality bought into question thanks to Qantas - which lead to even deeper questions being asked later in the next 24 hours.

See, next weekend is my birthday. I'm turning 44. I keep looking at where I am in my life and thinking, 'What the hell have I done?" Then you think, "Oh, there is more than a chance that I've lived half my life - and things keep speeding up! Argh!"

Cheery thoughts, mixed in with a bit of loneliness.

Never one to wallow for long, I took myself off to the Sydney Aquarium, battling the wind and the rain to get to Darling Harbour.

Here is where the crappy flight and it's aftermath really set in. I was really looking forward to seeing the fishies, not having been to an aquarium for years. What I thought I would love turned out to be something that rattled me even more. Okay, Sydney Aquarium felt rather outdated - whether this was because a lot of it is under scaffoling in preparation for a relaunch in a few weeks, or my mood - I felt a bit freaked by the fishies looking at me - the huge crabs and manta rays floating around me - it cut me to my soul. I think the only bits I really enjoyed were the penguins, the vogelbekdier - oops, sorry, platypuses (I could watch them for years), and the tropical tanks where I spent quite a while looking for Nemo. I was through the joint in just over an hour. Enough.

Back at the hotel, a long hot bath and some thinking time. Time to work out how to lift this funk. Time to start to put some plans in place to get things moving. I may be stuck in a city that I don't particularly like without anybody to talk to, no point in wasting the time.

A quick salad dinner was ordered off of room service and an early night. My frazzled nerves couldn't have done much more.

Morning came with the resolution to have a day of sensory fun. A day to soothe and nurture. A day to murder and create - kill of the glums and create a new life.

First up - a swim. The hotel has a pool on the tenth floor. An outdoor arrangement set behind tall screens. Sydney had served up another dreadful day - cold, wet with howling winds. Before leaving my room, I ran a bath in preparation and made my way down to the spa.

The next half hour was the start of the restoration process. The pool, lightly heated, proved the a most wonderful oasis. With the air temperature around six degrees, swimming laps on this grey day felt amazing. After five minutes I'd adjusted to the water temperature and had a lovely half our swim. Even more amazing was going back to my room for a long hot bath. Serious bliss.

After dressing and a spot of shopping, I checked out of the Swissotel and made my way down to my hotel for the night in the Rocks area in readiness for a night out with Trin and Kez at a favourite restaurant. My room not being ready, the suitcase was left at the concierge and I schlepped out to entertain myself for a few hours.

Gallery-ing was on the cards. The weather still inclement, the thought of being bounced around on a ferry out to Manly didn't appeal, Zumbo cake or no. The first stop was the Museum of Contemporary Art Australia in the Rocks.

All I can say is that the place is fantastic. Though traditionally not a fan of Modern Art, this place blew me away. Spending a decent two hours with my thoughts, looking at all variety of objects really started the soul on its upward track. Pieces to ponder:

Peices to make you uncomfortable.Really uncomfortable:

(There was a room full of these types of items. Needless to say, moved on quickly from this room)

Pieces to bliss you out:

It's a place I'll be going back to. It's a wonderful space to think and contemplate and enjoy.

With half an afternoon up my sleeve I went for a walk to the Art Gallery of New South Wales, tucked away in the Botanical Gardens. More time to contemplate and enjoy.

It was here the loneliness of the weekend finally abated and the blessed solitude arrived. Finally, it twigged - how blessed is it to get some time on your own. Time to do exactly what you want, when you want. A time to enjoy the silence and the noise - to not have to communicate or meet deadlines or meet commitments. It was a time to just be. Walk in the wind. Look at pretty pictures. A time to allow myself to feel and grow.

There is something about being alone that allows for every sense to be fulfilled - a heightened, altered reality where you can see what you feel, hear what you see. Eveything is taken in, from the sounds of the wind to the vibrations of small buddha statues made out of Thai bank notes (the fact that destroying images of the Thai king is illegal made this all the more satisfying) to enjoying a walk in the park on a blustery day.

A little bit of ordinary magic.

Another hour in the state Art Gallery taking in the sights it was time to go back to my hotel, have a bath and get ready for dinner with Trin, Kez, Kez's new partner and some of Trin's friends. The location, Sake restaurant. Once again, another wonderful dinner with wonderful company. After some great food and conversation before a fairly early night in.

For the morning held the annual 14 kilometre City to Surf. Another long, hot bath and a good sleep was needed for this run that I really wasn't in the mood to do.

And that is another story for the next blog.



Expectation Realignment

It's been planned for months. City to Surf weekend. The bib came in the mail a few weeks ago. The hotel and flights are booked.

And I've had three weeks of continual colds, sinus infections and general malaise - on top of gastro a few weeks before, on top of a cold Melbourne winter on top of...

Time to adjust the expectations.

I've already moved my Melbourne Half Marathon entry down to the 10 km race. I'm not going to do much better than two hours on this City to Surf schlep - I've barely trained in weeks - but with preparation from next week I'll be grand for the Melbourne ten kilometre run. I'm good with this - I'd rather do a good job of the shorter distance than hurt myself on the longer one. Just as this weekend, I'm happy to mostly walk and jog a bit when I feel like it - I'm still coughing up junk, though I'm not sick any more. It's not work hurting myself or making myself sick again.

Things are a bit different this year. Instead of my blue race t-shirt I've shoved my favourite pirate t-shirt in the case - a black shapeless number with a skull and crossbones on it. The script reads, "The beatings will continue until morale improves."

My expectations around running have been adjusted to the realities - I'm not in top shape - its time to get training properly and make a good crack at this 10 km race in October (with a lead up to it a month before with the Adelaide City to Surf). It's a great goal to get on with - especially as I've settled into the new job and feel a bit more stable now.

The other bit of expectation realignment comes with the fact that my plans for some of this weekend have fallen through. My friend,Mariah from Brisbane was supposed to be joining me on the Friday. I haven't seen her for a few years and it's wonderful when we catch up. She's one of those old friends who fits like a favourite jumper. The conversation picks up where we left it off however long ago that may have been (I think its four years since I last saw her). Regardless, Mariah couldn't make her conference and won't be in Sydney, so I've got a day by myself in Sydney to do as I please, with a nice hotel room at my disposal and a day to do what I want before meeting some friends for dinner on the Saturday night and joining Trin for the City to Surf on Sunday Morning.

Not having Mariah join me has shaken me more than I would like. For the last few trips to Sydney I've met up with people and had some company. This time, I'm on my lonesome - and this is the fact I've had the greatest part dealing with. I'm generally great on my own. I've only ever travelled on my own - but with this, I have months to plan and adjust to my solo state. Having my plans changed at this late stage has taken some of the gloss off of the trip. I was looking forward to a wonderful meal  and a glass of wine in a nice restaurant with somebody to talk to over dinner (though this will happen on Saturday night - just not Friday) The planned shopping trips and lingering coffees won't be there.

So, for the last few days I've been thinking about what I'm going to do in Sydney by myself, with a good hotel room for two days.

It's a chance to get to the Art Gallery and the Museum of Contemporary Art and have a good wander. That's on the list.

Maybe go and see a film, like The Sapphires or finally get to see that Batman film that my mother is raving about (we do this, ring each other if we see a film we think the other will like. The last one I recommended to her was Hysteria - costume drama  about the invention of the vibrator - fantastic film).

Maybe I can go window shopping.

I've got my book for company, a space to relax, a big bath tub, bath salts, nail varinish and the like - its cool. After the heavy week I've had at work, it's a lovely pre-birthday treat. A day off. More than likely the last one I will be having until Christmas.

The other thing I've got planned tomorrow - something I've wanted to do in a while - I've bought myself a ticket to the Sydney Aquarium. I haven't been to an aquarium since I was a kid. Never been to the one in Melbourne, so I thought I'd try out the Sydney one first.

I've driven my poor team nuts singing this afternoon - I do that when I'm stressed - sing that is (though I probably drive them nuts most of the time too. The song - "I'm gonna go and see the fishies..."

Sung along to the tune the cat from Red Dwarf used. See.

I'll have a good time. I'm nearly over the disappointment of not seeing Mariah. Once I'm in my big bath reading my book with a glass of bubbles to hand, I'm sure I be right.

Let's have a little chat...

"Okay universe, come in, have a seat."

The universe stands in the doorway, looking rather distracted. It's not the way the universe normally looks - it's usual swagger and candour have gone and it's standing there, shoulders slumped, eyes not meeting my gaze, shuffling it's feet and looking a little the worse for wear. Funny how bullies look like this when they know they've been sprung. There's some remorse in the universe's demeanour - just as there's a "so-why-should-I-give-a-toss" angst about it's sloping gait. 

The universe shrugs it's shoulders, comes inside the room and takes a seat in front of me, not bothering to meet my eye. "You got a problem?" it asks.

"Yep. Why are you being such a shit at the moment?"

I'm not sure if the universe is used to be being spoken to in such a way.

"I'm allowed. That's my job. I work in mysterious ways."
"Doesn't mean that you're allowed to treat all my friends like absolute crap."
"Who says?"
"I do."

And so the stand-off begins.

Calling the universe into account for its actions of the last few days became necessary after three uncomfortable communications were received in a day. A text, a phone call and an email conversation. All three correspondences left me a little shaken, but in different ways.

I stare at the universe.

"You're being a prick, you know?" I say.
"I well I gave you a couple of nice days so you could walk to work, what more do you want?" it mumbles.
"Yeah, and you also gave me the second head cold in three weeks."
"You discovered the Neti Pot! What's your problem - you've learned something." The universe challenges me back.
"And I also wanted to go for a nice long run and go see Tessa and her baby this weekend. Neither of which I can do with a head cold."
"Oh boo hoo. Wasn't meant to be. Deal with it. You've rearranged your bedroom and got your ironing done." 

The universe can be a recalcitrant turd at times. 

Indeed, I have a head cold - which under the circumstances is not the greatest of tragedies, but I am sick of the snot - it's been around for three weeks. I have indeed discovered the Neti Pot - or a funky way of flushing out your sinuses. It's not at all pretty, but it does seem to be able to get the crap out of your head. That, and a chat with the naturopath, who's got me on large doses of brown horse pills as well ask keeping Coles in business from the purchase of tissues, Ease-a-Cold and butter menthols, I'm not doing too bad really. In the scheme of things, I can't complain.

"Okay, well explain about Lachlan?"
"That's his stuff to deal with."
"Oh."
"And it's your stuff to deal how you deal with the situation."
"Ah. Hey, you're turning this around."
"Chats are a two way street."
"Oh."
"So, what have you learned from Lachlan being bedridden."
"It's not mine to care for, but to be concerned about."
"You you're not going to put yourself on the next plane to Hemel Hempstead? Go to his rescue."
"Don't be daft. I can be a friend - but I can't heal the world."

Lachlan finally called yesterday, and at a reasonable hour. He's finally having a long standing back issue dealt with, but will be in hospital for around six weeks - most of that time will be spent in traction. I knew about the back issues. How do I feel about this? Glad he told me, but that's it. My lesson in all this - it's mine to be concerned - but not to care for. I can't heal the world. He has people there for him. All I can do is be a friend.

"You're learning." Dead-panned the universe.
"And what about you? When are you going to learn to be compassionate?"
"You're confusing me with Jesus. Since when have I been a compassionate entity?"
"You know I don't believe in Jesus. I'm responsible for my own life and my own mistakes."
"You are." 
"But as a training ground for the soul, you can be a complete arsewipe sometimes."

The universe is a hard task master. This is a fact.

"Well then, what about Mick and Deb? A miscarriage! Seriously. What did they do to you?"
"You know the answer to this," it replies.
"Nothing. It's theirs to do what they have to, as horrible as it is."
"I see. And I suppose it's my role to be there for them."
"Probably." smirked the universe.

Over the years, I've seen enough friends go through the consequences of miscarriages and infertility. It is terribly, terribly sad to see people so dreadfully tormented by the actions and inactions of nature. All I could say to Mick, when he told me about what had gone down today was, "Look at the love in your life - that and the wonderful child you have together. I'm so sorry." There is no solace, yet Mick, though rocked, seems to be okay.

Me, I can't relate to this, not having children or ever really wanting children of my own, the lack of a partner taking that want away - but I've got used just being there to listen. You can't say anything useful. It's horrible.

I take the conversation to a slightly less troubling subject, not wanting to press the seemingly vengeful universe further.

"And what about the phone call at lunch time?"
The universe sniggers.
"What did that poor woman do to you?" I asked.
The universe sniggers again.
"What sort of compassionate God allows a nice person to have a heap of rotting fish to be dumped in their yard."
Once again, the universe had a chuckle, but meets my gaze.

This call came just before Mick got in contact. Kara, almost raving, distraught. She's not had a good time since she emigrated to Australia a year ago - it's been a tough run for her. The last straw happened this morning when somebody dumped a heap of rotting fish in her front yard. She has no discernible enemies. She's a quiet, law abiding citizen. What sort of sick, twisted wanker would offload a heap of rotting fish into her garden?

"Well, how do you explain this?" I challenged the universe.
"And how do you explain it?"
"I asked you first."
"Call it a challenge."
"I see. But what did Kara do you?"
"I could ask, what hasn't Kara done for herself?"
I nodded at the universe.
"And what are my two universal tenets?"
"Take responsibility and learn from the situation - whatever you throw at us."
"Somewhat better that "The Lord will provide"."
"But you do provide! You provide pain and heartache and torture and acrimony."
"And I also provide lessons. And love. And fun. And friendship. Some of these things you could take part in young lady, but you choose not to."
"Piffle. I'm forty-four in two weeks. I'm too old for some of that rubbish."
"It's never to late to partake. It's never too late to learn."

The universe stood up on this point, turned on its heel, winked at me and left the room.

It's hard watching friends go through trials and torment. The universe was right in that this world is a proving ground - a place that we learn and grow, not just through our experiences, but through the experiences of others.

I keep in mind the serenity prayer: (Insert your Deity here), grant me the serenity, to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can't, and the wisdom to know the difference.

And I leave you with the ministrations of Nick Cave. When things get tough, I often thing about this.

Taking the universe in for a chat probably wasn't the most sane of things to do, but I feel better for it.

After all, if you can't shout at the universe, or howl at the moon, or just generally ask the universal,"Why?" what are we here for?

Your Stuff. My Stuff.

I got the text in the middle of the night - nothing new about this, he always stuffs up the time zone thing. He's been stuffing up the time zone things for over a decade.

Lachlan: Going into hospital for a few days. Don't worry. I'll be fine.xx
Pandora: WTF!!!!
Lachlan: All good. I'm fine. Just a little operation.
Pandora: Eh! What's wrong? Sending healing.
Lachlan: Will explain it all when I get out of hospital in a few days.
Pandora: WTF! You're telling me this over text! From the other side of the world! Get better. Cheers.
Lachlan: Will let you know I'm okay. Will text often.
Pandora: Roight

Hospitals and I have a strange relationship. Mum was a nurse for forty years, meant that I was in and out of her work place from early childhood. Dad, not a well man, ravaged by rheumatic fever as a child, was regularly in hospital for most of my lifetime and half of his - so there was a heap of time spent visiting him throughout my early life.

Of late, I've seen a bit of hospitals, ending up in the emergency room of St Vincents twice in the last three years - that was fun (My doctor questioned me when I said I wanted to go there, "That's where the drug addicts go when they have a cold."). When Blarney was having her boys, I spent countless evenings watching telly with her on my way home from work, keeping her company while she waited for the boys' arrival in the local maternity hospital - a blessed mile down the road and on my tram route. I'm more than happy to visit friends who are stuck in a ward for what ever reason - hospitals don't generally freak me out. I'm not fond of them, but I don't have any nightmare associations with them like some others.

On the other hand, friends who are in hospital interstate and overseas brings the fear of god into me, no end. Chills me to my soul. Hate it. Sends me loopy.

I spent the day with my train of thought going everywhere. Hospitals, overseas, Lachlan, operation. What was wrong with him? Poor boy. And why was he telling me? And what wasn't he telling me.

Then I settled. And freaked out half an hour later, and settled once again.

The lucky thing about Lachlan, he has a doting girlfriend and two teenage sons to look after him when he gets back from his hospital jaunt. If he's not going to tell me what's up, then so be it. I'm not going to call all around the hospitals of Hertfordshire finding out where he is or how he is. He's not mine to fret about.

He'll be fine - although I got a text today saying he was going to be kept in a few more days due to complications, but he's mending slowly. At least he keeps me in the loop, I suppose.

Jonella and I had lunch on the day of the text interchange. She was concerned for me, wondering why I appeared to be stressed over something that I shouldn't really be overly concerned  about.

Jonella: He's got his family. Nice that he told you he's going into hospital, pity he won't tell you why.
Pandora: I know. It's just something about friends and family in hospital when they're overseas and interstate. Freaks me.
Jonella: How do you mean?
Pandora: Well, when my Mum was in hospital with pneumonia a few years back I was beside myself. Threatened to go back to Myponga to look after her - my step-dad said that he was fine to look after her.
Jonella: That's fair enough.
Pandora: Then there was what went on with Wubbe. Stuck up in Northern New South Wales for months as he recuperated from that accident. Went up there three times to see him.
Jonella: And you were a good friend to him. Too good some would say.
Pandora: Yeah.
Jonella: So why are you fretting over a long absent friend who has the audacity to tell you he's off to hospital for some bizarre complaint at four in the morning?
Pandora: I'm going to have to think about that.

So think about that I did.

It came down to working out what was other's stuff and what was my stuff. Why does all this talk of hospitals from across the seas make me feel like I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown?

It all comes down to my stuff.

There's something in my soul which shatters at the thought of being in hospital all alone away from somebody to take care of them. It brings up all the abandonment issues I've harboured for most of my life.

Hear of a friend in hospital abroad and I resort to eight-year-old me, sitting in a hospital bed, legs encased in plaster, left to fend for myself while my parents were working. Shocked, scared, alone, I came back from that hospital trip and altered child. The experience was repeated three years later, both scarring experiences on a psychological level, even though I know that physically was the best thing to happen to me. I'd still be walking on tip toes with knock knees if I wasn't.

Then part of me turns into the backpacker, glued to an x-ray machine, the radiographer waiting patiently for me to stop coughing so they could get a chest shot - suspected pneumonia - the doctor told me to go home and have somebody look after me for a week. I had to explain to them I was travelling and I could look after myself, thank you very much. Somebody in my hostel dorm went and found me some dinner that night when i returned from the emergency room. Thankfully the sleeping tablets and antibiotics were quick to work over those few horrid days so I didn't keep the others awake. Other memories of getting myself home on the bus after small procedures, stitches aching, dressings wet with blood, the starts of shock setting in as I stumbled towards the front door.

I look after myself. There was nobody in the near vicinity to take care of me when hospital visits occurred

So when I hear of a friend in hospital who's interstate or overseas - this is where my soul goes - and I get rightly upset.

Luckily, I know I can get out of this place easily now.

I remember the last few hospital stints. Ending up in the emergency room at St Vincents  - and soon after Reindert and Jonella have come and sit with me for a while - both checking in hourly when they had to go back to work and collecting me after their work day was over. I think about how, with three days notice, a round of day surgery had friends coming around and sitting with me over the first few days of recuperation, one even sleeping in the spare room for the first night, keeping watch - even Wubbe turned up for a bit, manning the post between longer staying friends.

Even last the other week, hacking up a lung, my downstairs neighbour popped in to check on me, making sure I was okay - with other friends willing to come around if I needed anything.

But I'm used to looking after myself - there was no need to fret. I was just thankful that there was somebody there - just in case.

 I'm sure it will happen again - people I care about ending up in hospital sick or injured.

Just when it happens I have to remember that the world is a good place and there are people there - even when my psyche remembers a time when they weren't.

And try and educate Lachlan as to when is the best time to send a text from the UK to Australia... though with 13 years of trying, I can't see it happening.

I wanna do bad things with you...

I nearly named this blog "Porno Weekend", but that would be wrong. Very wrong. It nearly got named "Pretty Dirty Things", but that don't cut it either.

So I came up with this title because it fits the bill. With the only think on the telly being the Olympics at the moment, I think I'll be watching a lot of Vampire porn over the next few weeks. Not that I'm against the Olympic Games, its just thatI really only like to watch the diving, gymnastics and occasionally the dressage. That's it. 

So yeah, the title comes from the fact that most of the last day has been spent considering the effect of soft core pornography on the soul of one delicate, seriously celibate Pandora. 

It all started last night as I departed from the office at 5 p.m. I'm loving my new role of instructional designer at Sparks and Ladders. I love the team - not a Gen Whine, mega ego or other type of office freak in sight. Everybody's a little nuts, but it's the nuts that I get on with. I'm back in the land that I enjoy and appreciate - back working on the periphery of engineers - this time of the brown cardigan, ex-government, infrastructure types, which are infinitely more daggy than the telecommunications engineering types.

The other thing I'm loving about the job is that a being an instructional designer - the person who designs training courses - when it's a day like yesterday. I spent the day pondering colour schemes, axis positions and click orders - which is fun and frustrating in equal measure. Sometimes I write things. The rest of the time it feels like I'm herding cats. Another story for another time, but my manager - a very patient woman, has charged me with keeping the team business analyst and the site builder in order. After eight days on the job, I'm starting to think that herding cats would be a far easier task. 

Anyway, I turned off my computer at a quarter past five, walked out of the office into a drizzly night and knowing that I had nothing other than a haircut, a session of Pump and a visit to Blarney on the cards for the weekend, I took myself off to see Magic Mike.

Yeah, Magic Mike. 

The softest of soft core voyeurism for the outer-suburban masses.

It's brilliant fun. After a heavy week at work - just what the doctor ordered. Sometimes it's a good thing to sit back with a choc top and think, "Hmm. Pretty."

Strippers seriously don't float my boat. The thought of going to a strip show - no thank you. But there is something lovely and dorkily watchable about Channing Tatum. Nobody's ever told him to put his shirt back on. Ever.

As films go, it's one of pure, brains-off escapism. It's sweet. It's fun. And it's full of semi-naked, preened, waxed, beefcakey men with sock-stuffed jock straps. After a hard week at work, there's not a better form of entertainment to be found.

There is also the slutty, filthy charm of Matthew McConaughey. Oh, he had some fun - and he took his shirt off too. He's good at that. Really good at that. 

I walked away from the film some tow hours later happy. The brain went out at the door and was put back in on the way  out. Perfect relaxation fodder.

As I said, strippers don't park my tractor at all. I've been at enough hen's parties to witness the degradation of both the stripper and his prey. Besides - willies aren't that interesting. Seen one, seen them all, only taking on mystical status when you have something going with it's owner. Strippers are more about the humiliation of the bride than for enjoyment. 

I think this is why Magic Mike was surprisingly enjoyable. There was a story - albeit lightweight. His character was rounded out. He was a good bloke (unlike his skeezy protege). There was a lot more than beefcake on stage prancing around, though give him his dues, Channing Tatum can REALLY dance.

So off I go home to bed after the film. I'm still trying to shake the last of the lingering cough from that cold and sinus infection I had a few weeks ago. With me, replacing the cat that recently went home, a copy of "Fifty Shades of Grey."

More housewife porn.

Okay, I'm reading it to see what all the fuss is about. 

Is it rubbish? Yes. Readable rubbish. The lightest of light soft core porno - sort of Mills and Boon with handcuffs and riding crops.

Is it the worst thing I've ever read? Hell, no. That honour still goes to Helen Brown's mega-woeful "Cleo - the  Cat that Healed a Family." (Still berating Blarney for that choice for book group). It's not well written at all - in the league of sexed up Twilight without the vampires. (I've heard that this all started as fan fiction gone wrong - and I can see that)

 Is it titillating? Not really.

After witnessing the better portrayed, lighter side of BDSM practices in the movie "Secretary", this has left me wanting.

Really, I can't see what the fuss is about. On the BDSM scale, it's like a two. Both parties are consenting, both have dulled, agreed limits. He doesn't get off on degrading her. There are no kids, animals, water sports, fisting, gimping or scarification on the table. What's the bother?

The thing that keeps me reading is what is not said in all the hype. It's not to see what they get up to in the bedroom. It's not about the alleged shock factor of the bondage stuff. It's not the wow factor of the over-the-top banality of the mega-rich man being attracted to the ordinary girl - though that is fun. I'm finding the flowery, cliche-driven text scoffable - just like with Twilight, although by the end of the fourth Twilight book I was ready to strangle the person who gave Stephenie Meyer a word processor.

Worryingly, or more to the point, disconcertingly, it's got me pondering that thing about the one person you meet in your life who pushes your buttons. The person who's buttons you push back. The person you ache for in the middle of the night when when you wake with a start. The one who when you smell their scent in the street, every hair on your body stands on end. The person who you're supposed to be with and you know it from the second that you meet. 

And this is where this book, all dreadful prose and "Look Mum, I can shock you!" activities has got completely under my skin.

It's left me wanting. Not wanting to be spanked or degraded or ferried around in a late spec, upmarket Audi.

This bloody book has left me pondering something I though I left behind years ago - sitting with a mess of wildly inappropriate thoughts, the desire to smoke half a pack of Embassy Reds, down a pint of bitter, go to the Walthamstow dish lickers (greyhound racing) and drink in the scent of Davidoff's Cool Water for Men.

And this may well be the power of this wretched book. On a badly-written, cliche-filled, shockingly flimsily plotted way, this bloody book has brought him back to life.

He who shall not be named or thought about. The one that got away. The one that I will always ponder on "what if" - if I let myself.

The one that knows how to push every one of my butons - who's buttons I push back in return. And we both know it.

Bloody book.

I think I'd better go have a tepid shower and stick something less arousing on the telly.

Like Red Dog. Or March of the Penguins. Or the West Wing. Or the Sound of Music.

Ho Hum.

Be Cool

I received an interesting email through my LinkedIn account yesterday. It read,"I saw you at the X food court just a while ago, but you were halfway down the street before I could say hello. I remember you fondly as one of the cool kids from Tin Can, String and Whistle."

That an email came through from this person didn't phase me - he's a nice guy I worked with for a few months a couple of years ago.

The thing that flummoxed me was that he thought of me as "one of the cool kids."

This is me you're talking about.

Me, Pandora T. Behr, who's currently sitting on the couch in a big towelling dressing gown, typing on a laptop in the late evening, blogging like a dork -  I know myself as one of the daggiest people on the planet.

I am not cool.

Cool is one of the last words I would use to describe myself. Odd. Strange. Somewhat flaky (though I nearly tore somebody's head off when he called me flaky a few months back) Reliable. Loyal Weird  - but never cool.

I'm about as cool as three-day-old road kill in the middle of the Simpson Desert.

How can anybody who irons her bedsheets be cool? (Did that earlier tonight)

Or have a love of Shakespeare, the Pixies and tomato sauce concurrently - not cool things.

Or the closest relationship she's had in the last ten years is with her best friend's cat.

I'm not cool.

Fonzie is cool. Don Draper is cool. Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction - cool.

I truly believe that I have never been, nor will I ever be cool.

From a young age I got that I wasn't meant to be one of the cool group. Something of a loner and an outcast, I had a few friends at school, but I was never part of the cool or popular crowd - far from it. University and college were the same. I had a small group of good friends, friendly to most, but not overly popular.

See, I reckon I'm about as cool as the Maow Maow in his pink jumper.

So, just what is cool?

Looking at the definition in dictionary.com, which gives the cool I'm talking as being "not excited; calm; composed; under control: to remain cool in the face of disaster."


Wikipedia, that suppository of all useless knowledge provides a definition as "Cool was once an attitude fostered by rebels and underdogs, such as slaves, prisoners, bikers and political dissidents, etc., for whom open rebellion invited punishment, so it hid defiance behind a wall of ironic detachment, distancing itself from the source of authority rather than directly confronting it."


Okay, I can wear some of this. I'm pretty good in a crisis and thinking on my feet. Ironic detachment I do well. Thumbing my nose at authority - yeah. But that's only a little bit of me.


It also says that cool is: " regarded as cool is an admired aesthetic of attitude, behaviour, comportment, appearance and style, influenced by and a product of the Zeitgeist.

Thing is, this being called cool really flummoxed me. It's dented the view of myself. See, here I am, looking at what's what. I'm not that interesting, as anybody who reads my blog will know. I'm a runner. I'm a nerd. I'm a loner. I will admit to being average looking and reasonably intelligent. I'm tenacious,  stubborn, occasionally  glib, sometimes a bit funny, sometimes obtuse. I dance and sing and laugh quite a bit. My memory is stupidly good.

But I'm still not cool.

I asked this question of Jonella - telling her about what went down. Her response was she though cool was somebody who was comfortable in their own skin and surroundings - and by this, I fitted the bill.

Still gobsmacked. And still not cool.

The only other time this has happened was in England a few years ago. Staying with my friend Verity for a night after a long trip away. I catch up with her whenever I got to England - she's a good and trusted friend, though I rarely see or hear from her. One of the last times I was there she bade me a compliment.
"You've changed Pand. You travel the world. you get on with things. And I you're really rather cool."
"Cool? Me? You sound surprised."
"I am," she responded.

I suppose I'm just sitting here, typing on my laptop, in my dressing gown, blogging late into the night just pondering how people see me versus how I see myself.

And I'm still not cool.

Where is Pandora?

I'm sitting her in a t-shirt that reads, "The beatings will continue until morale improves." It has a pirate skull and crossbones on it. My hair is tied up in a ponytail. The heart rate monitor sits comfortably under my bra, but the watch part is sitting on the windowsill, looking out over a lovely Melbourne Winter Day. The cat is asleep in the middle of my unmade bed. A waft of lemon grass oil is coming from the bathroom - lemon grass - a brilliant fungicide  - better than  bleach for cutting through mould - not that there is much - in the bathroom. I'm thinking about turfing everything out of my bedroom and rearranging the furniture - I do that once a year.

And I look at the do to list:

• Get some exercise
• Sort the Elks Property Commission books
• Get a few more pages into "Fifty Shades of Grey" and not laugh at the appalling writing
• Hoover
• Go see Blarney and the boys and the Maow Maow
• Iron
• Get everything ready for the week
• Think about what else can go on Ebay

Stupid thing is, I'd rather curl up in bed with the iPad and the cat and watch the last season of Mad Men again.

I am exhausted.

My last post I was telling you about the "Man Flu" as the Plastic Mancunian calls it I was suffering from last week. I asked Jonella about this - did I indeed have "Man Flu'? Her response was in the negative. I was really sick - it wasn't Man Flu. The antibiotics have now run their course, the snot is receding, but by 8.30 p.m., I'm ready for bed. And I haven't been to the gym since last Thursday - over a week ago.

My gut reaction to the new job is proving accurate. I've been there three days and I reckon I'm going to be really happy there - but this is not to say that in the last three days of work I've worked harder and smarter than I've done in the last couple of years. Hit the ground running is a bit of an understatement. Hit the ground and expect to do a sub-three-hour marathon is more like it. The work is interesting, the people are lovely but I've been given a large task to sort and deliver on in a very short time frame. I get in, turn on the computer, grab a bottle of water and sit there until lunch, plotting, scanning and generally getting on with the job at hand. A catch up with the project manager at the end of Friday had her suitably impressed. I rather surprised myself - as I was telling my Instructional Design mentor. I can't remember ever having to take the helm like this before.

Hopefully Sparks and Ladders will do me well.

Somewhat later:

I'm looking at the list above. It's 11.30 p.m. Where did the day go?

The only exercise done was walking around the shopping centre on the way to get supplies. This laziness ends tomorrow.

Blarney and the boys got a visit. Did not see the Maow Maow. Allegedly he's in hiding as Blarney is making him wear a coat due to a skin condition. The coat is allegedly pink and is supposed to be worn by toy poodles. Poor lamb must feel very emasculated.

Mother and sister have been called. A trip to Adelaide for the City to Bay has been arranged.

The ironing is done. A load of washing got done too.

The Elks books are done. I got some help. See...

The Elks books took me the better part of the evening, but they are done now. Thank goodness. Whoever thought I'd be a good treasurer was mad. Sure, I've worked in banks - but I work in IT now. This was an exercise in revisiting my past. Reminded me of my time at Merrill Lynch reconciling corporate actions.  I think I should book in a session with my counsellor to debrief - I forgot how much I hate ticking back accounts.

A few pages of the diabolical "Fifty Shades of Grey" got read late afternoon. It's like Twilight with bondage but without the vampires. This is not a good thing. There are so many writers who do decent women's erotica - Justine Esstler, Tobsha Lerner to name a few - this is just Mills and Boon with cable ties. Dear me.

I've played a few rounds of "Kill the Moose" with the cat - this involves throwing a catnip-infused Hessian mouse around the place. The cat goes after these things with the fervour of a teenager at a One Direction concert. Watched her go head first into the walls every so often. It's a joy to watch. She loves to play.

My clothes are set out for tomorrow morning, my bag packed and the alarm set for 6.15 a.m.

I'm officially back in the rat race.

Now I really have to plan the time to write.