School of Life/Spotlight sale.

FFS

I left work in a flurry of excitement last Thursday, and then it took me almost an hour to get across 2 suburbs.
But absolutely worth it to get to the largest , cleanest and most organised Spotlight store I've ever seen.
That's not to say that it's very clean or organised mind you, just that it could be far worse.

Sadly though, there were no trolleys left when I arrived.

But that's my fault as I had stopped to set the world to right in the manchester section first, by rearranging all the NRL merchandise.
I routinely place all Roosters items at the back (sometimes even underneath the shelving), and replace those vile nasties with all beautiful South Sydney Rabbitohs merchandise instead.
Much better.

Little deeds of kindness and consideration such as this all add up and help with the overall energy and tone of this planet, I believe.
It's called taking one for the team, and you're welcome.

So, my moral quota fulfilled, I was free to mince on down to the quilting fabric section and jostle with the standard herds of aggressive menopausal cows for fabric.

Actually, it wasn't too bad.
Most likely that's because they were all snatching up wishy washy florals and plaids rather than the bright and colourful bolts that I like.

Anyway, no trolleys.
These robust women, most being clearly in the need of some (any) exercise, had taken them all - some now carrying only 2 or 3 bolts of fabric in them.
Pathetic.

Never mind. Trolleys are for the weak.
We're talking about cloth here FFS, not bricks.
Should the need ever arise, I could do 20 miles with 20 bolts strapped to my back. Easy.

Some time later, after grabbing maybe a dozen bolts and struggling to the checkout line...do I need to tell you that there were only 2 people cutting fabric on sale night.. .or did you assume that when I said Spotlight?

Well, I was about 6 people back, trying to balance 2 armfuls of (very nice) fabric, my handbag and my jacket, without dislocating my shoulder.

I thought I was doing rather nicely too. No pain, no gain.

But, I must have looked awkward enough to cause one of the ladies with 3 bolts of fabric in a trolley a little guilt though, because she kindly offered to let me share her trolley...

How nice.

So after thanking her and dumping my 2 arm loads of fabric (far more attractive than hers) into it, I retired to my spot, 2 people back to quietly and accurately judge people by their fabric choices. ;O)

A few minutes later, I realised with no small amount of glee, that just as I was checking out people's fabrics, they were checking out mine.
But, they were assuming that it belonged to her, poor thing.

I suspect it was rather a confusing and sobering experience for her.

My pile of bright 1960's reds and oranges, my dog print for Clair, my glittery white, my fire engine red flowers...you get the picture.
As one lady pushed past her, I heard her remark to her daughter, "OMG, look at that one!"

I glanced at my kindly and long suffering trolley friend, only to see her standing with her head bowed with the shame of being a fabric outcast for having chosen non-cottage themed prints at a Spotlight sale.
Um-ahhhhhhh!

I may make fun of it now, but she really did look a little put out and confused at all the attention our trolley was receiving.

I'm used to it.
Indeed, I enjoy it.
And it was really interesting to me to watch a completely different reaction up close and personal.

Of course, the moral to the story here, can be 1 of 3 things...

1) don't be so lazy as to hog a trolley when you're buying precious little
2) don't let anyone else's opinion mean crap to you
3) don't be so kind/guilty

I'm pleased to acknowledge that I indulge in none of these behaviours, but that I now own a good deal more fabric than I did last week.
And none of it has roses on it.
To Hell with roses.

Sewing updates.

I have been behaving.
Unless you count that little visit to Spotlight's sale last week. But I'll tell you about that later.

But, in terms of focus and completion, I'm doing very well.

The top pic is of my hexagons. I have all but finished the blocks and now have only (hahaha, did you get that?), only to sew a billion mud coloured hexagons, stitch them all painstakingly to the rest and then attach all the finished blocks.
Simple really.
But then, I've discovered that hexagon quilts don't finish with a straight edge, and therefore I must find a way to deal with this...
This is what comes from just jumping in and learning as you go.

But the biggest problem I have is that I must decide whether or not to log on and purchase more indigenous fabric and make the quilt huge. Then I won't have to worry about finishing it off until a lot later.

My extravagant creative instinct says go.
My even more extravagant creative instinct says, well, if you do that, then you won't be able to start on the multi coloured one, or the vegetable one one have planned...
Dilemma.

Oh well, so in the mean time, I'm doing Dad's jigsaw quilt and I avoided facing hexagon reality yesterday by pulling out all the friendship blocks I have received so far and sewing them together instead.

Since October 2006, I have been in a block swap with 3 other girlies and just a few months later, it became 4 other girlies.
The basic idea is that each month you make a block for someone and post it to them, and of course, each month, you receive one yourself.
There is a roster so that you know who you're sewing for, and have a basic idea of their fabric tastes etc.

I don't believe that I have consulted this list even once.
No, that's not entirely true.
I did notice that Clair doesn't like brown just before I chose to sew her a block with chicken drumsticks and eggs, which is all brown.
Pfffffft to Clair, I say.

Well, the first pic is a block I received from Vicki...apparently she thinks I like Souths...no idea what could have put that in her mind.

The WANKE hand cream block is from Clair (in advance) and refers to my first ever blog where I confessed to have 9 types of hand cream in my bedside drawer. Still do.
Make of that what you will.

The next pic is the whole lot so far.
Not one stitch done by me - except that border of Vicki's I had to fix up, and the seams of course.

It's amazing to see so many different ideas and styles side by side, and even more incredible that they look good together.

Down the bottom left there is a section that my Aunty Kitty contributed to.
I can pick her work a mile away. Technically perfect - strangely elegant yet naive cottagey stuff. She loved the idea of the swap and sent me a few for Xmas last year.

The centre piece is what started it all. Pretty good likeness of me too.
Originally, I had the idea to do a banner with all of us on it, that we could hang out the front of Bron's place, warning passers by that our group was in session.
But legally I think that puts us in a difficult position, like warning people of a vicious dog...

The last pic, is one that I received recently, from Vicki I believe (hooray for leopard skin), and it has all of our names on it.

I have no idea at all what I will ever use this thing for. Too big for a wall hanging, too encrusted with beads and buttons for a table cloth, too out there not to be displayed.

Maybe I'll use it on my sewing table.

Delicious mock Anglicans!

Finally I own a recipe for delicious mock chicken.
Finally! And after all these years of running a household without one.
tsk tsk tsk
How did I do it?
Anyway, things have been set right now.

Mock chicken has long commanded instant hilarity in our house.
Well, at least since Jeff and I went into town one day and encountered vegan protesters (my personal favourite) outside KFC at Town Hall handing out literature demanding that KFC stop killing tortured baby chickens and use delicious mock chicken instead.

Knowing that my brother has a wee problem with KFC, and struggles to remain vegetarian because of it, we were kind enough to bring him home a range of mock chicken reading material.

After thanking us both profusely and sincerely by saying, "get fucked", "you're killing me!" and "you cunts", we were satisfied that we'd done the guy a solid and that he was genuinely grateful for our consideration and kindness.

But I've never had the opportunity to actually make him a dish of mock chicken, but soon all that will change and his karma will once again be acceptable.
What an excellent sister he has, lucky boy.

Yesterday, my friend Mark arrived at work toting a book he'd picked up from the scummy Parramatta Town Hall church stall on the way to the bus stop.
He seemed very proud of himself.

He produced from his bag, The Anglican Retirement Village Cookbook, a very fine specimen of Australian kitsch, no, make that Australian cuisine.
Hmmm, well I'll let you decide which one once I've walked you through a few of it's more notable pages.

And please don't think that I'm poking fun at the people who honestly believed that not only were these recipes fit to serve to their friends and families, but worthy of publication, no less.
And I say were and speak in the past tense, because I cannot believe, even if this book was published but a fortnight ago, that anyone who regularly ate this way is still breathing as I write this.

And remember kids, that's a professional opinion. ;O)
So there.

Well, what can I tell you?
I ogled this Mock Chicken recipe with sheer delight and disgust and immediately sent a text to both Jeff and Adrian, informing them of our very good fortune. A miracle, if you like.

I'm not going to bother with the method as I truly doubt anyone I know would plan on making this stuff, but the ingredients are as follows:

• butter (what, no margarine!?)
• onion
• fine white breadcrumbs (hard to believe that the kind of person who would use mock chicken would also eat white bread, isn't it?)
• grated cheese
• chopped tomato

So, essentially, what they're proposing you slap on your white bread sandwich is, well, white bread.
Clearly this person was a health nut and possibly even worked for both Diabetes Australia and The Coeliac Society at some stage.

Should I tell you that right above this recipe there is one for Savoury Ham Rolls?
What you need to do for these beauties is to spread some cream cheese onto some hyper-processed, square ham slices and then roll them up.
Dear God, why?

OK, so, at this point, I must mention that the first page of this gem fair near took my breath away.
It has a recipe for Chicken and Corn Soup.
After reading it over a couple of times, I asked Jeff what were two ingredients he would expect to find in such a soup.
He very rationally informed me that he would expect to encounter both chicken and corn in his bowl.
But no.
No chicken at all.
Perhaps this one was also submitted by the mock chicken person?

What is it with Anglicans and chicken? Do they secretly worship poultry and we haven't figured this out yet?
Well, I've got my eye on them.
My suspicions were later deepened by the discovery of a recipe for a Feather Cake towards the back of the book. ;O)

And as if none of this were bad enough, the SALAD section almost caused me to swallow my tongue. Given a choice of the two, I would certainly prefer my tongue to their salads.

Apparently Australian Anglicans believe that fried hard boiled eggs qualify as a salad. Umm, no. At least if I'd written that as an answer in a nutrition exam, I'm sure I would have been marked down for it. Don't you think so?

Nevermind. God love the Anglicans!

But you just have to get a load of this recipe for Egg Cutlets.

What they would like you to do, is to chop up hard boiled eggs, with milk, curry powder, butter and flour and then squish them into little cholesterol like balls and deep fry them.
But the fun doesn't end there... they actually suggest that you serve them with bacon for Sunday night tea.
Might be an idea to phone the ambulance just before you sit down to eat this though, there might be traffic.

Now, a couple of things I do know about old school, British descendant Aussie cuisine... if they give it a fancy name, it's going to be gross.
Times ten if that name includes any French.
Also, if they're going to flavour something, it'll be with curry powder or ham.
And wherever possible, your ingredients must come from a tin.

Of course, the truth is, they've got no idea.
White Australia just doesn't know how to eat. They just don't. The poor bastards think that bland is a flavour.

OK, onward and upward.

Pear or Peaches Au Fromage.
As I have already mentioned, the fancy name alerted me to probable disaster.
You'll need tinned fruit, cream cheese, milk, gherkins, onion, capers and olives....
No, I'm perfectly serious, that's what it says.

And right underneath it, there is a recipe for Smoked Oyster Salad, perhaps just to divert your attention and horror away from the above recipe.
For this one, you'll be wanting rice, curry powder (told you so), French dressing (anything French is perceived as fancy by elderly Aussies), celery, smoked oysters, shallots and capsicum.
And to really do this one justice, you must garnish it with parsley.
Scrumptious I'm sure.
Certainly a conversation starter.
A bathroom filler too.

Honestly. There really is a recipe for Sour Cream Salad on page 15. There is!
Probably no-one is surprised by now though.

But, maybe I can still impress you with the Russian Potato Salad?
To make this exotic number, you will need 3 tins (they come in tins?!) of potatoes... which suggests to me that it may have been a royal recipe at one stage.
Furthermore, and I shit you not, they actually tell you to add a little caviar if you can afford it.
But who knows, maybe shelling out for those tins of potatoes has blown the budget?
Cripes.

Naturally, there is a recipe for Tuna Casserole that uses cornflakes in it.
Cornflakes...in your dinner...on purpose!

Not too far from this, there is something called Pineapple Chops.
Now, at least one of you may think that this is a good idea, but if I told you that they're talking pork and that they've included mixed dried fruit and raw rice... well, not so funny now, is it?

And I'll tell you something else that isn't funny, and that's the Ham and Cheese Au Gratin recipe.
Once again, the fancy name suggested to me that this was likely to be of interest to me.
Damn it's boring being right all the time!
From what I can determine, au gratin simply means this is so bad that I must cover it with a lot of cheese in order to draw attention away from the other ingredients.

I think this recipe is even more of a trial to my sensibilities than the mock chicken was.
I'm trying to imagine anyone not living in a caravan or trailer while they're eating this, but I'm having little success.
See how you go.

First you make a full loaf of heavily margarined white bread ham sandwiches, and then you cut the crusts off.
Surely they're not attempting to make this dish look posh by cutting the crusts off?
Then you roll your sandwiches up (can you believe there are 2 recipes in the world that call for such nutritional delinquency?) , put them in a baking dish and cover with beaten sour cream and egg.
Naturally you'll need to cover your ham sandwiches with plenty of cheese before you would bake them in the oven. OMG baked ham sandwiches.
You need always to ensure that you cram as much saturated fat into a meal as is possible. Anything less is slovenly housekeeping and will make the baby Jesus cry.
Well, it doesn't actually say that, but it's implied.

I cannot neglect the Orange Pudding, whose ingredients are as follows: white bread, orange juice (but I suppose Tang would do), sugar and water.

How can I end before mentioning that very scary recipe for Wine Tonic?
But of course, I can't.
Just how sick must you be in order to wish to consume something that contains malt, port, bovril and Fisher's Phospherine?
If you don't know what Phospherine is, it's an emulsion of yukky, gritty fish liver oil liquid. Bovril of course being something like liquid vegemite.

Hey, wait a minute... anyone else starting to think these guys are taking the piss?
Are Anglicans known for their sense of humour?
They might be. They've hidden their chicken worshipping all these years.
Maybe they're just trying to kill off non-Anglican Australia with their cooking, in an evil bid to take over the world, or at least the Hillsong facilities?
Maybe they secretly own the patent for Diaformin, plus all the statin (anti-cholesterol) drugs and are seeking to increase their profit margin.

hmmm... I'm starting to like Anglicans....delicious mock Anglicans.

Progress report - Dad's Schimpf quilt.

What follows is a progress report on the quilt I'm making for Daddy's 70th birthday, which will be on the 31st of December.
So far it's title will either be That Fucking Quilt, Schimpf, or if I'm suddenly feeling horrifically racist by the year's end, The Yellow Peril.

The Yellow Peril was a 1970's quirky jigsaw puzzle that had no map, 1000 pieces which were all the same shade of yellow, was circular and as if all of that were not nasty enough, it was saddled with a rather vile and racist name, the significance of which really only dawned on me as I was sewing today.
Yuk.
The 1970's WTF?

Anyway, so I'm thinking that I won't be calling it that...


The manufacturer all but dared people to finish it and rewarded them with a certificate in exchange for photographic evidence upon completion.

Somewhere, buried beneath a million other ghastly 1970's snaps, we have said photograph. Right next to it is my dad, looking really, really tired.

But as my family has always considered it proof that my father has some sort of jigsaw OCD, we thought it best not to send it to any sort of authorities, even the jigsaw bigots.

And rightly so.

Dad has always enjoyed (and loathed) a good jigsaw.
It's something we were able to share as I was growing up. Just watching how his mind worked was fascinating to me.
Laborious, logical, methodical, compulsive, yet joyous at his task.
And stamina! Fuck me dead this guy's machine.

I used to love it when we'd do a puzzle together during summer. With the cricket day/night match on TV, fresh fruit, leftover Xmas biscuits and a cup of tea, we'd sit hunched up for hours as Dad methodically sorted the pieces according to differences I had never noticed in them. And, he turned them all over before proceeding. Who does that?!

During all of this, he would complain strenuously to me about how much he hated jigsaws, sing the occasional silly song and punctuate any other silence with, "...bowled him!" or "...bullshit!" if he happened to glance up at the cricket.

Eventually, I would pack it in for the night - probably due to a cat who was sleeping in the puzzle box lid that I was using, or worse still, on the sorted pieces themselves.
Dad would exclaim, "...bloody pussing katzens!" and "...shit!" whenever he noticed such feline misdeeds, but I never once recall him actually moving a cat. I do remember him shifting his own seat though. Perhaps this was simply a coincidence though. ;O)

In the wee hours of the morning...you know, the wee hours... when I'd stumble out to pee, there would still be the shape of this diligent creature, moving somewhat slower perhaps, but nevertheless, still absorbed in his work of finding that three legged piece with the crooked leg.

When he realised it was me geistering (ghosting/wandering) around rather than Adrian (no jigsaw puzzle lightweight himself, although not inclined to procure them), he'd yell out, "...shit, Simone, shit, what are you doing to me? Shit! This is awful."

And so it was awful, I guess.
But not to me, I always found it reassuring to recognise so many aspects of my own personality in my father. I childishly hoped I'd be able to keep them as I matured and expand upon them. I like to think I've done just that too.
I recently overheard Dad remarking to a friend that yes, his daughter looks like him, but that more importantly, "...she thinks like me."
Best compliment I've ever received. Certainly the only one I can quote.

So, in addition to the jigsaw component of the quilt, I'm planning on (probably) bordering it with two plain yellow borders that I plan on doing various stitcheries on, plus one with a printed fabric.

The first border will have the prose from a William Wordsworth poem about daffodils that Dad used to read to me at bedtime rather than fairy tales.


I wander'd lonely as a cloud... *sigh *

I love it, but to this very day, it does make me very tired.
Just call me Pavlov's dog.

Then a border of daffodil fabric.
Daffodils have a special significance in our family.
Apart from the nightly poetry readings, my mother adored them. When she died, we chose a headstone with daffodils on it for her.
Also, daffodils represent the fight against breast cancer and are in bloom during August and September the months of Mum's birthday as well as the anniversary of her death.

Finally, I'm doing a larger plain yellow border that will have all of Dad's favourite swear words on it. Well, not just his obscenities, but his silly words as well.
I'm even including the Yugoslav word for c*@&.
A family fave.
Plus his new favourite, which is taken from his second wife, Vivien, a gorgeous Maltese lady...Ma-donna!

So far we have:

• Ma-donna
• schimpf (meaning to go crook on or berate)
• pitchka (C@#& in Yugoslav)
• pfuitsch (Dad/German hybrid for yuk)
• verschlagen (from MAD magazine - I thought for years that it was Yugo)
• schmutz (Dad/German hybrid meaning to make a pig of yourself)
• goodie gums (Eric for lollies and chocolate)
• yebem te sunse (motherfucker - Yugo)
• verflixt noch mal ( Dad/German hybrid meaning damn or for god's sake - sort of)
• umdrehen (German for turn around - what he used to say when we were little kids and he'd towel dry us after a bath)
• compulsories (referring to Vitamin C tablets which he insisted we took...prescribing vitamins is genetic?)
• extra wurst (mostly German - meaning a food bonus or treat)
• hops (a command he developed for our dog, Holly, so she would jump over stuff thus saving him time and trouble)
• a good cleansing panic (Holly was a Doberman cross Rottweiler, but was a sooky nervous Piscean dog who would freak out with monotonous regularity, in fact, she would panic on command too - Dad thought it was good for her)
• sugar, scheissen, shit! (this quintessential Dadism begins with an attempt to be reasonable, but quickly gives way to common sense)
• runter! ( German for get down - often heard and ignored by cats)
• yumich ( NFI from whence this comes) it means something delicious
  
• 14-14 (his favourite football score - who has fave score? FFS what a weirdo)
• and finally, my contribution as a 6 year old...bernarner (I was asked to spell banana, and sounded it out, with what I still maintain was good success...Dad still belly laughs at this regularly, in fact I've never seen him eat a bernarner without giggling)

So, there it is. My masterpiece.
I have no concerns about littering a perfectly good quilt with obscenities because, eventually, I shall inherit it anyhow, and I like it.

When I told Viv of my idea, she pissed herself laughing and then said in all seriousness, ..."but not bright yellow, buttercup yellow."
So I'm guessing that the thought of having Yugoslavian obscenities draped across her lounge is of little concern to her so long as the colour tones in with the curtains.
And with little wonder.
Viv's surely heard it all by now, so I guess nothing I can stitch onto this quilt will come as a surprise to her. :O)
I'll try though.


I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..

Evolution.

Evolution.

I wonder whether it only happens to those who believe in it.
Like wishing on a star, voodoo and reverse parking.

It seems to me that this fad is passing entire families and in some cases, even whole suburbs by completely.

I don't know about you, but I'm perfectly certain that I would have been somewhat happier living in a world where survival of the least smelly stood alongside survival of the fittest as one of evolution's basic requirements.
Mother Nature dropped the ball on that one.

In fact, I would go so far as to include the following on my evolution wish list.

• survival of the least likely to encourage or participate in breakfast radio
• survival of the least likely to place individual pieces of fruit in a plastic bag prior to purchase
• survival of the least likely to ride a bicycle on a main road &/or during peak hour
  
• survival of the least likely to whistle
• survival of the least likely to wear strong aftershave or perfume
• survival of the least likely to holiday in 3rd world countries and indulge fantasies of wealth and status at the expense of locals
  
• survival of the least likely to invite you to amateur theatre
• survival of the least likely to wear those long glittery toxic trailer nails that habour several hundred kinds of faecal bacteria beneath them
  
• survival of the least likely to name a child Jaydon or anything-Lee (my faves so far are Sara-Lee and Shandi-Lee)
  
• survival of the least likely to chant, "Roo-sters!"
• survival of the least likely to wear thongs (flip flops) with winter clothing
• survival of the least likely to have chicken nuggets in the freezer
• survival of the least likely to eat with their mouth open
  

But, it's not all bad.
I have another list that may make me seem more tolerant.

• survival of the most likely to wash regularly
• survival of the most likely to read a book
  
• survival of the most likely to carry a pen and an umbrella (both are necessary to win my respect)
  

That's about it though.

And I'm not about to recant any of that upon my death bed.

Sugar never tasted so good.

Please note that this is a follow up to an earlier post entitled IT'S A CRUST.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We had plenty of left overs on Wednesday night. I'd made Chicken Cacciatore in the crock pot.
God bless the crock pot. My hero.

Left overs are not uncommon in our house. Not at all.

I believe that both sides of my family have donated to me what I like to think of as "the catering gene".
Both sides, mind you.
There are only 3 of us here, but there's always plenty for 6 should the need arise.

Perhaps this familial inclination to over cater has come about owing to larger families, or maybe on Dad's side because they ran a butcher's shop and restaurant in Slovenia at some stage.

But somewhere, sometime, a portion of a DNA strand mutated within one of my female ancestors whilst she was innocently crumbing only 10 kgs of schnitzel for 3 people and bingo, Simone was condemned to a fridge full of Tupperware for all eternity.

But who knows?
Apparently not Charles Darwin.
I stood on his grave at Westminster Abbey recently and I'm none the wiser for it.

Leaving DNA out of the equation, perhaps we're just a generous, extravagant people who can't measure properly.

So, as the boys were clearing up after dinner, I was filling lunch boxes for the next day.
I asked Yoga Boy if he would like one.

"No," was his flat response.

After a few seconds (I had my back to him), I had to reply with, "What do you eat for lunch?"
I wasn't having a go, I just had never taken the time to imagine what he would choose for lunch and considering the rest of his diet, I was a little scared.

To my utter amazement, his reply was, "A salad sandwich."

A salad fucking sandwich!?

"BULLSHIT!", I shrieked at the top of my voice, quite reasonably.

Now, Yoga Boy hasn't ever read my blog, so he had no idea why I would be so interested or shocked by his lunch order.
In fact, he must have been thrilled to finally be able answer me without mentioning Tim Tams when I asked him about his diet.

Jeff on the other hand, knew precisely why I was all atwitter and had a good chuckle at both of us, as he often does.

Imagine discovering that these things actually exist!
And worse still, that the yoga doing, chocolate eating demon from downstairs is the one ordering them.
It's just too much for me.

I told Adrian that next time he ordered this nutritional holy grail that he had to phone me so that I could be absolutely certain that this event was taking place and that there truly is such irony and evil in the world.

And there is.
And it's readily available from The Industrial Takeaway from 5am, 6 days.

In the end, we went one better than the phone call. ;O)

Sugar never tasted so good.

Serious stuff.

People, something has happened within my family of a most serious and alarming nature.

One who walks among us has made a claim, which if true, will shortly see me blogging in a state of humiliated contrition.

So earnest is my desire to witness this travesty for myself, that I intend to rise far earlier than is usually necessary come Friday.
This will allow me to complete my jobs if plenty of time in order to film said spectacle from a cosy distance.

My anguish as I type this is quite extreme, I can assure you.
But fear not, I am woman and I shall endure.

It cannot be true. It must not.

Simonean Utopia

No.
I just can't take it anymore.
It's time for a change.

Far too many things bug me these days for it to be my attitude that's the problem.

If someone had set things up properly the first time, then I wouldn't have to be sitting here today, writing this when I could be sewing my hexagons instead.
But I am, so I'm going to put my back into it and do it properly.

I'm about to outline a few changes that I believe the world could afford to make in order to attain the perfection that would be The Simonean Utopia.
This may otherwise be defined as the way things should have been all along.

This is going to be a rough ride folks, so either strap in or jump now.

Should you make it to the end of this, you may hereafter find it just as difficult to function in the world as I do. And for that I am sorry.

• an individual's birthday will become an annual and personal public holiday. It's just common sense that no-one should have to work their birthday. Even children know that.
  
• In the event that it is raining 7am on a Monday, a public stay at home and read day will be declared. This will be funded by the solvency of un-Simonean businesses to be listed later.
  
• HSC curriculum to be altered to include the compulsory study of lyrics from the following people:- Jello Biafra, John Lennon, Bob Dylan, Woody Guthrie, Jack White.
• health food/vitamin rebate available to those who prevent costly chronic diseases with their lifestyle rather than clogging up the public health system.
• extra taxes for people who consume white bread, coke and excessive red meat.
• cigarettes to jump to $100 per pack. The extra revenue raised to be redistributed to people who don't smoke as spending money for their birthday public holiday or books for their raining reading days.
  
• alcohol advertising to reflect the stupidity of people drinking...no wait that's already happened. Hey, something I can tick off!
  
• The Roosters to observe a salary cap and to admit that they are indeed only 8 years old (seeing as they changed their name yet again in 2000) and not 100 years old as they make believe.
• gigantic drive thru mosques to be built across the road from each and every Hillsong establishment.
• personal pixelation to be developed for television so that we may each avoid looking at people we find offensive eg Brendan Nelson, Phil Gould, Bronwyn Bishop and her thing of a daughter.
  
• any non-indigenous person having ever uttered the words, "they should all go back where they came from" to be immediately removed to current global war torn and disaster areas to assist with infectious disease control.
• tax rebates for people who have travelled, in recognition of their probable greater cultural tolerance. Does not include travel to Paris as that is known to diminish same.
  
• extinction of the following corporations/businesses:- Coca Cola Amatil, News Ltd, Subway, McDonalds, Samsung, American Express, TAB, Wesfield, Hillsong, organised religion generally, Nestle, Disney.
  
• abolition of the following: weddings (to be attended by only paid witnesses in order to spare the innocent), all gift "showers" of any description, polite laughter, comments requiring polite laughter, reunions, line dancing, amateur theatre, mainstream music, mullets, comb overs, nostril hair, reality television, commercial current affairs and news programmes, breakfast radio, game shows and economy class long haul flights.
  
• the following terms: too much information, as you do, don't go there, it's all good, let's touch base.
• using the following names, even for pets:- Tyler, Riley, Cody, Coby, Angel, Jaydon, Logan, Cheyenne, Harley and Jesse. All off side and unwelcome in the Simonean Utopia.
  

Well, that's a very, very rough overview.
And there must be ten times more I need to add to this list for the very sake of humanity.

So, I've picked up where Sir Thomas More left off circa 1516 when he wrote Utopia.
I'm sure he could not have imagined the horror of many of the things we face day in and day out in today's society, thus enabling me to overlook his not having done a better job with the specifics of his writing all those years ago.

How sweet the sound.

NOVA be damned!
I'm upgrading to the Inner Self publication.

Seems to me that the editors of this gem had a wee peek at Nova and more or less republished with a little more glitter and a lot less substance.

I could only bring myself to flick through this thing, so I'm just going to present you with a garbled mash of the nonsense that struck me.

Firstly, to Umesh...

Mate, either get rid of that fearsome mullet or stop claiming to be "blessed with visions, psychic experiences, esoteric metaphysical knowledge and guidance from both physical and non-physical Heavenly Masters."
No-one's buying that shit. Not even blissed out hippies or new age f(l)akes. They're just not.
Honestly, would you wear socks and sandals to a job interview?
OK, so that was a poor choice of question.
Why can't I believe that you have glimpsed the divine but you've never spotted the wretched mullet in the mirror.

Everyone knows that the correct hair-do for someone with divine access is grey, balding, slicked back and pony tail. More commonly known as "the wanker" or the "how was your trip to Thailand?"

How was your trip to Thailand, by the way?

Anyhow, I'm following his advice, radiating my inner calm and transforming into a being of power by awakening my personal power source while experiencing a quantum shift in awareness.

Is it OK to do that in public?

Oh, here's something.
Same page even, how convenient.

An advertisement for a vintage New Age shop.
I'm sorry, a what?

Their store motto?

"We know what we're talking about."

Next up, the Sassy Vibes vibrator range.
To re-awaken your sexual self. No chemical smells.

They all seem to be a in all the typically spiritually acceptable colours such as purple and aqua blue.
The Snugglepuss looks kinda like an old school telephone handset while the Rabbit Habit, well let's just say it doesn't look particularly ladylike.

I wonder why, with all the imagination these people so obviously have, not one of them has invented a dildo that looks like a dolphin. You'd sell a million. Bit of glitter, couple of feathers... easy.
Upon my just relaying this information to dear old Yoga Boy in the lounge room, he suggested that it be known as The Porpussy.

What else?

Aah, yes indeed.
An article entitled The Healing Power of Sex, which offers us the following information...

It seems that the author has, "...come to understand that to feel sexually aroused is a common reaction to the death of a loved one."

Bags not consoling her at a funeral.

Also, girls, she suggests setting time aside to have an orgasm whenever you have period pain.

Comments anyone?
I mean from anyone with a uterus, of course.

Now, I've never really been plagued with period pain, but the few times I was, I just don't remember wanting a good shellacking.
I do remember wanting tea, chocolate, cats, slippers and a book.

Is there something wrong with me?

Furthermore, I have lost many beloved friends and family and experienced plenty of grief during my 39 years.
At not one of these funerals or wakes did it ever cross my mind to get it on to the overtly sexual tones of Amazing Grace.
I wonder if that's why they always refer to it as the stirring sounds of Amazing Grace?
Christians, huh. You can't take them anywhere.

You'll be glad to know that I've chosen Glory Glory to South Sydney as my funeral anthem.
You may all do as you please when that comes on, I don't mind.
Actually, I insist.
Clair, you're in charge, OK?

You're now doomed to think of this next time you hear that song. That's my gift to you.

And just in case any of you feel like getting in the mood right now, I'll leave you with this.

How sweet the sound. ;O)


Amazing Grace

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That sav’d a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears reliev’d;
How precious did that grace appear,
The hour I first believ’d!

Thro’ many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promis’d good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease;
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun forbear to shine;
But God, who call’d me here below,
Will be forever mine.

Please pimp my plain pov bag.

Sometimes at work we receive weird promotional items.
It is not only my pleasure, but also part of my belief system to "fix" these items.

Last Friday I was one of the lucky few who suddenly owned one of the most boring and easily the plainest bag I have ever laid eyes on.

And I'm talking the kind of plain that is passive aggressive. Extra, extra, extra plain. Like stale Milk Arrowroot biscuit plain.
This bag may have been occupying space, but space was in no way happy about it.

The only evidence of a design idea to be seen on this thing was a little bit of plain gold writing on the plain white lining inside the plain white bag.

But I fixed it and I fixed it good.
And space itself must now be forever grateful to me.

I arrived home at 6 o'clock as usual, broke with domestic tradition by landing on the lounge by 6:05 and then I set about relieving this bag of it's mediocrity. Poor thing.

I'm quite happy with the result. I not only pimped it, I whored it.

Yoga Boy sauntered by and informed me that it looked, "really pov" in a tone that confused me as it suggested that pov wasn't a desired outcome.
Can anyone help me with this?

Well, perhaps he meant that the good people at Imedeen didn't intend for it to look silly and crass. And maybe they're not South Sydney fans.

Pffffffffffffft to them.
When they stop selling 60 tablets of fish powder for $150, I'll stop pimping their merchandise.

Or not. ;O)

Cause I'm a blonde.

It's not all fairy floss and glitter you know.

I've never enjoyed being blonde.
I've never enjoyed the attention or the assumptions.
As soon as I reached an age where I was able to, I hid it.
Better red than dead. That's right isn't it?

But after 5 years of dyeing my hair to avoid dealing with it, it finally dawned on me that I'd prefer to be able to identify those who judge others on appearance rather than merit, quickly and easily. To screen the calls as it were.
And what better way for me to flush them out than to just give in and be blonde?
Really, really blonde.

But today, something else occurred to me. Something that really should have occurred to me much sooner.
Sadly though, it's taken me almost 40 years to understand this point, which in retrospect, makes me feel a little dim. Blonde even. ;O)

I'd had glimpses of this ugliness quite a few times before, but I'd never seen it for what it truly was.

This morning at work, an old lady sidled up to me (bigots always sidle) and told me how glad she was that she was going to die soon.
Of course, this struck me as a fairly interesting thing to say.
Her reasoning was that the world was fast becoming so awful, that she was relieved she wasn't going to have to watch much more of it.

Now, this didn't throw me at all.

I'm always interested to hear from that generation, they've seen plenty during their tenure.
By and large I love old people. I have an enormous amount of respect for them.

I'm sure you all know people who are naturally good with children, well I'm certainly not, but I am naturally gifted at dealing with older people.

So, a statement like that didn't provoke from me the typical response of, "Oh, no, you don't mean that," or whatever it is that people say when they're being bland (not blonde) and polite.
I was interested in getting her to expand on her theory and perhaps compare her experiences of our history with the way we live now.

And sadly for me, she did just that.
She went on to explain to me that she now had to catch the bus with "licorice all-sorts" and that it should be illegal for Lebanese (they're all crooks you know) and Asians to have "so many children".

I'm sorry I asked.
Old folks today, huh? Tsk, tsk.
Pity you can't put a young head on old shoulders.

Well, so now I finally get to the point I keep trying to dodge.
The unnerving truth is this.

Bigots assume that I'm one of them.

They take one look at me and trust that whatever ghastly beliefs they hold dear, that I too am inherently capable of such viciousness of mind.

Isn't that great?

So, apart from my unfortunate colouring giving ugly false impressions as to my intellect and chastity, I now discover that even my morals are brought into question.
Not by anyone who counts perhaps, but still...
I'd never added this up. I just thought I attracted the loons. derrrrrrrrrrrr

And you know what I thought at the end of this very disappointing, yet illuminating exchange?
I thought, "I'm glad you're going to die soon too."
You and all those like you.
Every one of your miserable generation who has never allowed experience to temper bias and who know less about tolerance than a child who has done just 2o minutes in a playgroup sand pit.

As shocking as this encounter was for me, at the end of it I really felt uplifted by the thought that really, things can only get better.

So, I'm now thinking maybe black hair or even a veil may be of benefit as rudimentary bigot repellent.

Anyway, miserable old twats aside, if you've never been fortunate enough to enjoy Julie Brown as a blonde, here's a link to perhaps the best song in the world and her lyrics to Cause I'm a Blonde.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0rNfZxgkH7k

Because I'm a blonde, I don't have to think.
I talk like a baby, and I never pay for drinks.
Don't have to worry 'bout getting a man
If I keep this blonde and I keep these tan,
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
I see people workin, it just makes me giggle
'Cause I don't have to work; I just have to jiggle.
I'm a blonde, B-L-O-N-D.
I'm a blonde; don't you wish you were me?

I never learned to read, and I never learned to cook.
Why should I bother when I look like I look?
I know lots of people are smarter than me,
But I have this philosophy:
So what?
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
I see girls without dates, and I feel so sorry for 'em,
'Cause whenever I'm around, all the men ignore 'em,
'Cause I'm a blonde, nyah, nyah, nyah.
'Cause I'm a blonde, nyah, nyah, nyah.

They say that to make it, you need talent and ambition.
Well, I got a TV show, and this was my audition:
Umm ... okay ... what was it? ... umm ...
Don't tell me ... Oh, yeah, okay.
"Duck, Magnum, duck!"
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.

I took an IQ test, and I flunked it of course.
I can't spell VW, but I gotta Porsche,
'Cause I'm blonde, B-L-I-N-D.
'Cause I'm a blonde; don't you wish you were me?

[spoken]
I just want to say that being chosen this month's Miss August
Is, like, a compliment that I'll remember for as long as I can.
Right now I'm a freshman in my fourth year at UCLA,
But, my goal is to become a veterinarian 'cause I love children!

'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
'Cause were a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.

Girls think I'm snotty, and maybe it's true.
With my hair and body, you would be too.
I'm a blonde, B-L- ... I don't know!
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah!