Up yours!

Finished the pricks.

Good, now I can go finish reading Woody Guthrie's bio and finally get stuck into Rebecca. It's sunny, it's raining, it's Sunday, there's tea and football, dinner is all but sorted.

Life's good.

Up yours, you little yellow circley bastards.

Angry fairy dust.

You know how in Peter Pan, he shakes Tinkerbelle over someone so that her magic fairy dust sprinkles onto them, and then they come away being able to fly?
A little of that sparkley magic stays with them and they're not entirely mortal as a result of the encounter?

Well, in my own fashion, that's how I've been all day. Sort of.
But it's not been quite so glamorous or saccharin as Walt Disney would have liked, still it's been entertaining for both Hell Boy and Yoga Boy as we shopped and what not.

Last night, after months of planning not to go to the Souths /Roosters match due to emotional instability concerns, I gave in due to a last minute (surprise me) SMS from Hell Boy himself.

I told him it would be OK to go, but only if we sat with the Burrow.

No way could I sit with scum supporters. No way.

Besides, at these away games, the two warring factions (how quintessentially South Sydney) of fans, actually get together and sing the house down.
Most of their ditties are hilarious too.

I'd been telling Yoga Boy for years that he would love sitting with these people, but with little impact.
But I got him there, and very soon after he heard a song about Willie Mason being a cunt, his eyes shone with all the divine light of a freshly indoctrinated Hare Krishna disciple.

I spent far more of the game than I would have liked, with my head turned sharply to my left, pissing myself laughing at their songs, paying precious little attention to the game.
Oh well, at least I wasn't handing muffins around as well.

I have bruised hands from clapping.
My voice is in tatters.
My head is honestly still pounding 24 hours later.

And I'm still smiling.

Yet we lost and I don't care.
That felt like a win.
WTF? :O)

Well, I'll walk you through it.

Firstly, our boys played over those pretenders in the second half, we won the half time entertainment despite the fact that even their fans cheat at that, we outnumbered them, we out sang them, and best of all, we didn't have Siemens on our jersey. ;O)

Sitting in a packed bay at an aggro game, where people are constantly pushing past you due to beer going in or out of their bodies, stepping on your feet, knocking your jacket off the seat, yelling in your ear, imagining refereeing problems and burping hot dogs near you, and all the while, the fact that regardless that you've never met, you're instantly and irrevocably friends with them all, and that's a wonderful feeling.

If just one of them had those fucking filthy rags on instead of the majestic red and green, each and every one of these things would have caused untold agony.

But no.

To sit amongst a Souths crowd that large and be part of it as it functions as a noisy and powerful unit in a bid to protect and inspire the representatives of what it holds dear, is something I cannot describe to you.
You have to be a supporter of something to know this.
I'm sorry for people who never get to share in this with a large group at some stage.

My uncle told me once of a study he'd read that explained how people at football matches gradually and significantly increased their serum testosterone throughout a game.
Worse during close, aggressive games too.
Apparently it takes a while for this to return to normal, kinda like that fairy dust.

Well, my testosterone levels are at record highs and showing no real signs of backing off.

Seriously, I swear I scratched my balls a couple of times today already.
Felt pretty good too, I don't mind telling you.

But the fun doesn't stop there.

My attitude to shopping today gave me an insight into what it might be like for a man to enter a mall.
I am no longer surprised that they hate shopping.

I took offense at each and every person who walked in my path, wore something ugly, had too much perfume, I hated the lights, the noise, the smells - even the products.

I honestly wanted to confront the woman ahead of me at the fruit shop for individually bagging a capsicum.
I mean, come on!
It's a fucking capsicum you dumb whore.
And the bananas.
And the avocado.

Look, that shit upsets me anyway, but I usually don't want to take it outside.
I almost never visualise myself beating someone to death with an artichoke.

But then, they say that men are very visual.
And I was very visual today.

It's not good.

I take full responsibility for inflaming the situation by ordering a very large soy cappuccino right when I knew for a certain that what I needed was chamomile tea instead.
But I didn't want to look like a pussy in front of the boys, OK?

Got a problem with that?

BTW...

Still hate the Roosters
You know we still hate the Roosters
Still hate the Roosters
You know we still hate the Roosterrrrrs

They cannot win without cheating
They cannot win without cheating
Win without cheating
They cannot win without cheatinggggg...

Braith is a wanker
We know that Braith is a wanker
Braith is a wanker
We know that Braith is a wanker...


Epilogue:

After writing that, we went out for laksa and ended up having steak instead.
I really, really felt like steak too....

I'm going.

And I feel sick to my stomach.

My hands are shaking, I've hardly eaten all day and am now off to make a 2L thermos of chamomile tea to calm me down while I'm there. Or at least to throw at Anasta, the dirty Greek prick.

I have a score of beautiful people in similar mindset to meet there, won't be able to eat any of that shit food, am terrified for the boys and want to protect all my red and green friends.

Tell me again how healthy sports are.

But you know what?

I still hate the Roosters.

I really really really do.

Pity I don't drink alcohol.

Yellow circley pricks.

Did another 20 something of those evil little yellow circley bastards.

Did not enjoy my own company during this ordeal.

Am trying to get the pricks finished before I take myself off to Clair's to sew with her, Daniel, Dawn and Charm the Craft Diva next week.

No way I'll be able to hold all my cussing in if I have to work on circles at Clair's.

Bad enough I had to gag myself in the Souths corporate box in front of Dad at the weekend.
Don't get me wrong, I wasn't holding it back for Dad's sake, I'm just saddened he never got to see me at my best.
Nevertheless, I let out plenty of the following:-

Ahh, ya fah!!

That's not a fahh ahh ya dirty fahh!!!

Fahh ya fahh shi awwwgit cocksahhhh, pri.!!!

Cock shhh mahhfahh monkey fahh Jesus wept yaaa dopey son of a farrrrrrkk!

South Sydney - Part Three.

One of the most touching moments that came to me courtesy of the Rabbitohs, happened by the fridge one day at work.

Clair was telling me that she had been away and had encountered some scary guy in Souths thongs, had got excited and really wanted to approach him and talk about Souths, but was a bit put off by his general trailer creepiness.
But later she informed me that she,

"...had feelings for Souths."

How beautiful is that?
Just because it's something I love, she kinda loves it too.

That's what I love about being a supporter.
Nothing to do with the sport. For me it's sharing experiences - passion, triumphs, tragedies with the people I hold dear.

When we lose I worry about how Jeff will cope at work with the kids giving him grief, how Jo will feel all week, how it will impact all of the people I care about.

The joy of winning is just the same, only backwards.
I'm thrilled to finally see so many people who have done it tough, rewarded for their loyalty and endurance.
Good on us.

A few years ago on the forum, a couple of the boys were running an NFL Fantasy League comp.
My brother-in-law convinced me to join.
I thought that if I was going to learn a new sport that I should first choose a team - without any preconceived ideas.

So, I took myself team shopping on the internet.
I had to be careful.
I didn't want to accidentally wind up supporting the wanky, rich, cheating Roosters like side just because I thought their uniform was pretty.
Or because they were green like Souths.

Although, for the record, I do think that choosing a side because their fans wear cheese on their heads is quite a good idea.
Gretchen, it's probably best if you don't read that bit.
Good girl.

But I resisted the temptation to choose anything other than the perfect fit, and I barged into a few of the gigantic NFL fan forums.
Holy fucking fuck fuck.

There was something about the orange team that felt familiar and comfortable to me, so I posted an introduction in their tightly policed "football only section", telling them who I was, that I was thinking about supporting their team and asking them what the hell they were all about.

Then I went and did my grocery shopping.

By the time I got home, I had some proposals of marriage and a vote for Rookie of the year.

I also had a warning, "not to expect too much this year, we're in a rebuilding phase..."

I beg yours!?

They went on to explain to me that the club had been kicked out of the competition for 3 years (FFS- Twilight Zone or what?) and that they had pretty much been more or less fielding sub standard players, with a shitty admin and a crap coach...but were improving.
Slowly.

Sounds kinda familiar, hey.

"Pfffft, no big deal", I thought, "I can do that standing on my head."

And I did.
Am.

Once again, I recognised some extraordinary voices on that forum, even though I was asleep when they were awake and most of the time I had no idea what they were talking about.

I can do that standing on my head too.

And then Gretchen....the mother load.

Someone who is now loved by everyone I've ever mentioned her to.
And I pretty much mention her to everyone.

"Good morning, Vitamin King. Have I told you about my friend Gretchen?"

It could happen.

But you know what is going to happen? Tailgating at a Brown's game with Gretchen et al - hopefully as soon as next season.

I wonder what colour (color) her Tupperware is?

If she doesn't have any, I have a brown and orange 1970's set she can have. It's perfect.
__________________________________________________________________

PS You know what else makes me happy?
Clair and Gretchen have become friends.
That's as awesome a spectacle as Godzilla and Gamera uniting.

Hooray for football!

South Sydney - Part Two.

At some point, my excitement for South Sydney stopped being just a moral crusade and became part of my lifestyle.

(NB When I typed the above, it had a typo, so it read Oral crusader - a very fine title for a porno!)

I have always enjoyed surprising people with the maleness of some of my attitudes and interests, and when I fell in love with Souths, I felt as though I'd hit the jackpot.

Conspiracy theories, instant red and green family and sense of community, an enemy or ten, family outings, being able to shame large men with my superior knowledge of next week's team, innumerable opportunities to insert Up the Rabbitohs! into conversations and birthday cards inappropriately, the feeling of contributing to the restoration of something marvellous...

But if I'm 100% truthful, most of what I love about Souths is the fans.
The Cleveland Browns too, but I'll get to them later.

With everything the South Sydney club and it's fans have been through, and I won't go back over it, it's too awful, the people who have stuck with them have just got to be the most amazing folks in the world.
To me anyway.

That personality type is my absolute favourite.
And I'm talking about the ones who are more inclined to turn up when they're dead certain the team is going to get hammered.

The supporters, not the band wagon.

You know that expression - show me your friends and I'll tell you who you are?
When I look at my football friends, I swell with pride and I know that I'm doing something really right.
Actually, when I look at my friends in general, I feel as though I've found that bonus level in Super Mario World and I'm spinning around ecstatically making weird noises.

It wasn't long in my supporting history before I was pressuring Hell Boy to go to every home game, despite that ghastly hour getting out of the "car park", the incredibly long trip home with that empty, gutted feeling and the whole week following, having no possible way to excuse such a display, before starting the mental preparation necessary to back up the next week.

It wasn't long after that that I met a Souths legend through work. A man who had played in a three winning Souths Sydney grand finals!
The first player ever to win two Rothman's (now Dally M) medals!

This guy is not only a Souths legend, but he is a monstrous smart arse as well. Sag too from memory. Cat lover. Recently rifled through his shed trying to find me a pair of his grand final socks so I could frame them... I was planning on giving one to Jo...kinda like a demented friendship locket.

One day he dropped into work to get something for his dog's sex drive... and I bailed the poor guy up and talked Souths at him with such violence, that he actually had tears in his eyes from boredom.

At this very moment, I realised that I needed to find other Souths people to talk at, and not just pest the people around me.

And so I had a look at the Souths forum that both Hell Boy and Yoga Boy had been using.

I had never used a forum and I found it incredibly confusing for a time.
But I soon discovered that I could pick a pleasant personality out of the mix with very impressive accuracy.

Upon organising myself a Burrow jersey, I met Jo /Jobear. I had liked her from the very first time I heard her voice.
She is now technically my sista and has agreed to sing Glory Glory at my funeral.

We became friends so quickly and with such ease that my brother cautioned me...sleazy internet relationships and all that.

Well really, that depends on where you meet, doesn't it?
I suspect you're likely to experience shorter odds if you meet someone on a site where you're deliberately looking to sell yourself in order to find a relationship.
Everyone has a few hilarious RSVP stories they can tell at their friend's expense, but I've now heard a few good ones too.

Anyway, suffice it to say that Jo and I will never run off together.
Unless it's to a Tupperware party, a Souths fan day or some sort of baking expo.

Jo organised for our season tickets (I finally insisted we get them) to be with hers. Best seats in the house...right behind the bench.

When Game One rolled around and I was shyly passing around home made muffins from my Tupperware container with the green lid, Yoga Boy looked up, saw Jo passing around her home made rabbit shaped cookies from her matching red lidded Tupperware container, shook his head and said something to the effect of,

"Oh, I see."

Many, many times since then, I have dragged myself and my beloved boys to the game just to support Jo and the host of other beautiful friends we have made through this club.

Last Sunday was just such a day.
The team we were playing (smelly old Manly) had declared that they were just going to be using the game to improve their for and against.
We believed them.
We showed up anyway.

I like being one of those people and I adore having friends who are just the same.

We were rewarded by seeing Souths pulling the bastard's pants down and spanking them in front of all of their little friends, possibly costing them the minor premiership.

No muffins though. I'm off sugar.

On the very same forum that I met Jo, I stumbled into the social section one day, only to discover someone purporting to know more about tragic 80's music than I did.

The effrontery!

Three years on, we're still locked in a stalemate. Or at least I allow him to think so.

We even did a recent "resource swap", which in truth was just a nerdy showing off competition.
I won.

A few months ago, as I opened the cupboard that is home to our Souths gear (and the vacuum cleaner), one of my signed jerseys popped out.
And the first few names on it chilled my blood.

Adam MacDougall - let go by the club for being a dick head, went on to make fun of us and Rusty
Shannon Hegarty - aged me 1o years last season alone
Paul Mellor - played for us as a junior, left to play all his good footy elsewhere, returned to play in his dotage with us.

No no no no no NO!

Not good enough.

When I sacrifice a jersey, I want to be able to look at the signatures in years to come with absolute confidence that the people who signed it are going to make me feel proud.

So I changed my tack.
Screw the players, I'm only asking fans to sign it.
They're the real heroes.

The first signature I collected was Bob Log III from Tuscon Arizona... a one man band who gets women to stir his scotch with their boobies. OK, he'd never heard of Souths, but I think he's great. Even drew an arse hole on the bunny for us.

Next up was Hell Boy, a disgruntled Yoga Boy and then Jo.
I passed it around Bay 131 and all my bruddas signed it too. Plus a couple of forum people I like as well.
It's looking pretty good now, but there are at least a dozen more peeps who need to be on there, so it now lives in my bag every game day with a laundry marker - like I'm some 12 year old kid.
It's coming to Cleveland too.

Probably that will be what I'm wearing when they finally torch me.

South Sydney - Part One.

Before writing this, I've had to centre myself, align my chakras with the almighty red and green energy in the sky (not Santa), regulate my breathing and chant quietly to myself for 21 minutes.

21!

A few of you will understand it's significance.

A few of you will sit there, smugly believing that it's simply half of 42 and that that's what I meant.

You're both kinda right.
You're both nerds too, but that's OK.

If neither number excites you at all, you've clearly stumbled into my blog by accident and will be leaving again just as soon as you finish scratching your head.

Good. They're gone. And we're alone with my stupidity once again.
How nice.

So, I promised faithfully that one day I would try to explain my love of sport to you.
Initially my plan was to explain it to myself first, but who can be bothered waiting?

Better to stick to my overall approach to life - just make a start and figure it out as I go, making sure to keep the glass half full, my mind open, my heart full and my hands busy.

Can do.
Wow!Look at me go.

Right.

I must start by saying that I always detested sport.
I grew up in a half Slovenian household, meaning that weekends = soccer.
Except that in the 1970's, in lovely culturally tolerant Australia, it was better known as wogball.

So, I grew up in a wogball family.

My father played.
My father coached.
My father refereed.
My brother played.
My mother watched.
I complained, ate lollies, climbed monkey bars with other traumatised little girls and read a book, all the time secretly wishing shocking injuries on anyone with shin guards on.

I never watched a single second of that vilest of vile sports.

And when my father offered (insisted) to let me play netball, I told him outright that I would not be disposed of in that way, that only bitches played netball and that such a thing would occur over my dead body.

Very soon after that, I was allowed to stay home alone and do as I pleased.
He never mentioned netball again.

Two World Cups ago, Jeff timed me to see how long I could make it watching a wogball game without making a sarcastic remark.

15 seconds.

And I was trying! I really was.

So, with all these emotional land mines in my background, imagine my joy when I met and partnered my very favourite man in the world, only to discover that he would like to watch every single game of rugby league, every single week for 30 plus weeks a year for the rest of our lives.

Every one.

Hilarity ensued...

On our second date, he said to me,

"You're the one. All you have to say are two words and I'll know for sure...South Sydney!"

Naturally I refused.

C'mon! Sport!? What would you have done?
FFS

And rugby league at that!
Wogball's stupid, toasted cheese on damper plain Australian cousin.

"This isn't going to work", I thought.

And it wouldn't have either, had somebody not budged.

It was pretty much the only thing that we ever really argued about. It was awful.
I wanted him to enjoy the sport, but for me, having already lost every Saturday of my childhood to wogball, the prospect of losing chunks of my weekends as an adult to rugby league was devastating.

Even more devastating was the confusion and embarrassment of secretly purchasing a rugby league rule book soon after.

And then the frustration and humiliation of Friday night football.
Each Friday night, I would sit, alone, balancing a cat or two on the end of the lounge, desperately flicking through the rule book, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

And then the joy of disguising my increasing knowledge and familiarity with the game from Hell Boy until I was ready to unveil the new and improved me.

From memory I lasted like 3 games before standing bolt upright and screaming,

"Forward! That was a fucking mile forward!"

You see, I corrected my ignorance and I've never looked back.

But having learned football from Friday night matches in the early nineties, I became quite fond of the Canberra Raiders as a team. They were lime green and amazing to watch.

Hell Boy (my new blog name for Young Jeffrey -I mean, have you seen him?...LOL - he's a big red smart arse who loves cats) was constantly at me to support Souths (I'd liked them since childhood anyway) but I was in my early 20's and not inclined to do anything just because a man wanted me to.
I thought that learning rugby league was enough.

But in 1998, when Souths were unfairly kicked out of the competition, I saw the impact it had on him. I started looking into the reasons it had happened, as well as watching and appreciating the phenomenal fight that was put up to keep the club going during legal proceedings which might better be described as rape.

Uh-oh... nothing like injustice to capture my attention...

So, I started getting involved in ways that I understood - buying merchandise for a team who no longer existed, making 3 course red and green meals (kiwi fruit and strawberry shortcake is awesome), learning the club song...

Then they held a rally.
I offered to take Jeff and his brother. At the time they told me they didn't see the point. No-one would beat Rupert Murdoch and they would just get upset if they went.

I was most put out by this.
I still don't understand it all these years later.
You may not think you're going to win, but you must never let that stop you from being heard.

I could complain bound and gagged underwater, so having the opportunity to do it in the streets of Sydney with thousands of other people really appealed to me.

So, as the day of the second march drew near, I informed the boys that I was going if they'd like to come with, and was thrilled to finally be doing something positive for something they loved.

Incidentally, as we marched arm in arm amidst a sea of red and green, we were snapped and the boys (not me -FFS) made it into Who magazine as South Sydney zealots. ;O(

I was a little cranky about that. Still am.

At that rally, I joined the club, despite not being a Souths supporter. I made the boys join. I bought T-shirts, stickers and God knows what else.

I stood and listened to those speeches and songs, teary eyed, not quite understanding why I was so moved.
I'm slow, OK? I still hadn't figured out that I was a fan.

I also remember looking around at the immense crowd behind us and mentioning to Hell Boy that we were the only ones present with front teeth, but that I wasn't frightened.

I bought the Souths protest music CD and started playing it at home.
Jeff didn't like it, so I used to listen to it when I was home alone.
Still didn't know I was a fan though.

The day the final decision was handed down, I was collating the most evil stock take at home.
At 11 o'clock, I was sitting on the coffee table because my legs were shaking almost as much as the phone in my hands.

When the decision was positive for Souths, I sat and cried out loud all by myself.
As they cut to scenes of toothless, jubilant fans at the club, I vividly remember wiping away my snot and tears and saying out loud,

"Oh fuck, I'm one of them!"

Oh fuck indeed...



To be continued...

(Shut up, Happy Days did it...)

Ever been to Prague? Do you want pubes with that?

Have you ever been soooo sick that you were rendered emotionless?

Were you in a foreign country enjoying sub zero temperatures, feeling obliged to get out of your sick bed and explore for hours?

Was the city packed out with obnoxious Italian tourists unable to walk less then 4 abreast even if they were alone?

Were you so ill that you were unable to understand why you could not follow the plot of Sponge Bob in Czechoslovakian?

Were they letting off explosives to celebrate NYE until 6am right under the dog shit filled street by your window?

Did you breathe in 2 packs a day without so much as lighting up?

Did you simultaneously have a menstrual period so wicked that you believed it was trying to compete with your fever for eternal damnation?

Did you have to seek out public toilets every hour, budgeting an extra 20 mins each pit stop in order to deal with 3 pairs of wool stockings and record breaking layers of thermal underwear?

Did this all make you feel so damn feminine that you dropped to your knees to thank the Mother Earth for your vagina at each street corner?

Did you have to go against all your anti-corporate beliefs and set foot in a McDonalds for the first time in almost 10 years just to menstruate there?

Did they make you pay for the pleasure?

Did you find the receipt whilst doing Jeff's tax this week and decide you'd rather blog about it than recoup that 8 cents?

Do you think I can make it all the way to the end of this blog only using irritating questions?

Do you dare me?

Double dog dare me?

As you were tending your femininity in corporate Hell, did you over heat due to your high fever and aggressive central heating?

Did your finally tuck everything in, fight back snot and tears, only to discover that you were locked in the cubicle?

Can you imagine how clean the ladies dunnies in downtown Prague McDonalds might be?

Can you imagine how difficult it was to attract the attention of someone able or willing to help using barely any voice and a foreign language at that?

Can you imagine the joy experienced at eventually having to get down on the dirty pube ridden floor and slide face first through a cat sized gap under the McDoor?

Can you imagine what I might have said as I emerged?

Might you anticipate my reaction when, as I came out dusting myself off, I was asked, "What happened, get locked in?" by Yoga Boy himself?

Do you understand why my feverish, clot addled brain denied me access to 90% of those memories until August?

Do you think I'll be going back to either Prague or McDonalds any time soon?

Do you think it's a crying shame that I wasn't well enough to pop this all on a postcard at the time and post it to you at work without an envelope?

Hands up who thinks I should I fire this off in an email to Lonely Planet?

I can't believe how many opinions I have on fish, and this isn't even all of them. Sorry.

We keep fish.
At home and at work.
And in the kitchen, and in Adrian's room, and now in the garden as well.

I started it and I'm not sorry.
I even have a red and green South Sydney tank at work with my two little men - Shane and Nathan, who were kindly named by my cousin's child, Matthew.

At that time, almost everyone who played for Souths was called either Shane or Nathan, and he spent a whole game one day, reading and re-reading his footy cards, thus making,
"Shaaaaaaane and Naaaaaaaaathan" his mantra for the day.
We lost.
Probably because of Shane and Nathan.

One day, Matthew visited me at work, and I was delighted to be able to tell him that the fish were indeed named, Shaaaaane and Naaaaaaathan.
Nathan's the smaller of the two.

They come to me for kisses through the glass.
They really are very well loved fishies.

One year when I was on holidays, Vyja discovered that one of the fish had done a pooh which was the very same three colours as their food flakes.

Imagine! A neopolitan crap! And me not there to see it!
Of course, to Vyja, the obvious move was to grab a tissue and fish it out and save it for me.
She kept it for over a week.
I love Vyja.
Her generosity of spirit is certainly not restricted to Hallmark style gestures.

I confess that earlier this year, Shane did a spectacular red and green pooh for me on the eve of our disastrous Round 1.
At the time I thought he meant to tell me that Souths would shit on the Roosters. Unfortunately, he was simply warning me that it it was going to be a shithouse season for Souths and that those arsehole Roosters would be the cause.
Imagery and symbolism.

I've decided to tell you this today because this morning I had a patient who, although outwardly conservative, went on the tell me that she and her husband have put off a major European trip until their "Betta" (fighting fish) dies.
My eyes widened in understanding and admiration.
She went on to explain that in the mean time, they take them on holidays with them and set them up in their hotel room.
I love meeting people like this, I really really do.
These are the people who should inherit the Earth, not those Geek fellows.

She reminded me of the power pussy business woman who came in once, interacted with me without a trace of personality or humour.
As she was leaving, I saw into her purse to where most women keep a picture of their children.

A rat.

She had a photograph of her pet rat in her wallet.

You can look at someone and assume, but you never never know.
Ever.

I couldn't help but ask her about it, and once she realised that I wasn't grossed out, she told me how her husband would get up early each morning to let the rattie out and how it would sit between the both of them in bed and share their toast.

And why not?

Bread and water so easily becomes toast and tea.


Anyway, I'm glad I've taken the time to remember all this, because it will make what I'm about to tell you just that little bit less strange.

Recently, the fish thing has spilled out into our garden.
We now have koi as well.

Yoga Boy wanted a pond and a meditation garden, Jeff has loved koi and Japanese style anything as long as I can remember.
So, they built a pond with a waterfall and the boys chose three fish:

The fish formerly known as Tito

• A lovely white and black tipped boy.
• Unwisely named by Jeffrey for a UFC fighter.
• Inclined to jump out of the pond for no good reason and lie around in the dirt for hours in such a revolting fashion that none of our three cats will go near him.
• Renamed Herring von Bismark by me in a bid to reduce the energetic aggression surrounding his name.

The Bismark sank didn't it?
So far, so good. He has remained mostly submerged since the change of handle.


Poe

• Named for Edgar Allen or Master Po from Kung Fu
  
• A plain orangey thing with no personality traits worthy of a mention.
  
• Main claim to fame = found one day on our footpath keeping company with Phoebe the cat.
• Neither could offer any reasonable explanation.

Hanuman

• Named for the Indian monkey god but not imbued with his pizazz or reputation.
• I think he's orange, but I'm not sure.
  

After a few weeks, we made a family trip to the koi farm in order to buy some water ager, but no fish.
We returned with three fish.
Not sure about the water ager.

Yossarian/Yo

• One large, very attractive white and orange boy.
• The catwalk model koi
  
• Briefly revered as saviour of the pond due to his size and beauty
  
• Had a fairly considerable fall from grace and is now under threat of being sold at auction for a tidy loss of $70.
• Panics the other fish and swims at full speed into the sides of the pond repeatedly.
• Dumb like a stump
  
• So good looking, yet so stupid. Who'd have thought?

Then we come to my picks.
Initially extremely unpopular...

I arrived at the koi farm with the ambition of seeking out the ugliest fish there.
I already knew his name, Pfuitsch (pronounce pfoit-sh) - a Dad word meaning foul of gross.

Pfuitsch

• butt ugly mother fucker
• looks like a mullet/changed salmon with slimy scale rot
• easily distinguished by me from his slightly less ugly brother by his inner lips being snow white and very very disturbing when he sticks them out of the water
  
• OK, he's not the best looking kid on the block, but he has the most personality
• provider of all merriment, entertainment and hilarity
• grows on people
• such a typical Simone pick that Dad had only to glance at him to know he was mine
• not being sold at auction due to stupidity
  

Bandette

• my gorgeous girl
• bright yellow with black markings and is absolutely wearing a bandit mask/nerd glasses- she looks great in glasses too
  
• often described by Yoga Boy as looking like someone dropped a banana peel into the pond
• sweet natured and smart
• not being sold at auction due to stupidity
  

So, that's where we were until Yoga Boy decided he needed a second tank and to rip our whole garden apart to accommodate this.

Yesterday, Jeff was busy finishing off an ad that he's making and unwisely left yoga Boy and I to our own devices at the koi farm....more water ager ;O)

OK, maybe one more fish...
But this was Jeff's choice and Adrian remembers which ones he had liked out of the hundreds there....

So, he grabbed a net and after pulling up a few fakes, he produced a fish Jeff had admired a very great deal.
For a split second, I hid my shock and uneasiness from my brother as he exclaimed over this thing lying in the net just inches from his hand.

But, with me knowing that Adrian had plans to pat and hand feed this thing most days for the next 20 years, I felt obliged to divulge the following information,

"I'm not surprised he liked that one, it looks exactly like his dick!"

There's no really good way to say something like that, but that doesn't lift the burden of responsibility, does it?
It had to be done. It just did.

And seriously, I'm talking exactly.
It was indecent and I think I may have blushed.

Yoga Boy, being the trouper he is, replied with,

"Well we'll have to get it now! You gotta admire that about the guy. He wants a fish who looks like his dick."

I talked him out of it because, well, go back and read that again, but also because they'd already chosen a fish on their last visit (without me) and named him:

Swampy

• ugly enough that he might have been my completely my choice - freckly, multi-coloured and irregular
  
• calm during long car journeys
• briefly named Sanjuro during the Wank Dynasty circa 6:12-6:13 pm
  
• personality undefined as yet

And, just because we had no adult supervision, Adrian also chose another beast called:

Scummy

• kinda blotchy and weird looking, possesses lots of scum which trails enchantingly from her body
  
• a girlie girl
  
• since named Maya by Yoga Boy

After installing these two in their new pond, Jeff arrived home and seemed disappointed that we had returned with out his penis (he now admits paternity) in favour of a couple of slimey swamp monsters.
So many comments, so little time...

I'm sure it won't surprise any of you that at 3:45, I spotted them putting back on their shoes and grabbing their keys so that they could go and fetch home Jeff's orange penis koi after all.

Toshiro

• I won't describe him for obvious reasons, but if you come over and exclaim at his beauty or size, you're going to have to excuse my reaction.

By the way, my suggestions for the naming of this fish, which sadly were ignored, were Wang and Hung-Me.

Toshiro? Such a dick head.

FFS.

My father's daughter.

Just because I'm avoiding Dad's quilt (with pretty reasonable success), doesn't mean I won' get there.

It's not even the excrutiating technical minutia of the current stage that's putting me off, it's the harrowing behavioural comparison that I'm having a hard time dealing with.

I don't know why exactly, but exhibiting such overt Eric-like traits seems to be interrupting my concentration.
Not in a bad way, rather I make myself laugh at critical moments, thus causing me to fuck it all up.

Just consider how many little yellow circles I have to machine sew around (buttonhole/blanket stitch- aaarrrgh) before I can even think about moving on to the next stage....
I have slaved away, and I'm not even half done.

Simone doesn't handle repetition well.
She's OK with routine though.
Go figure.

In order to give you a glimpse of my mental disarray and agony, I made a mental note of my thought process during just one circley bit.

"OK, let's get this done.
Right. Fuck. Fucking thread. Shit. OK. I'll start here. Yes.
OK. Fuck, did I change the foot? Where's the foot? Poppy?! You shit little cat, where's the...oh never mind, sorry, here it is. Sorry Pop.
OK. Right.

Well this isn't too bad. Why did I put it off?

Oh fuck. Damn it. Fucking thing, that's so crooked. Maybe no-one will notice if I get an all over quilt design.
Shit,shit, it's August, I'm running out of time.
I need less coffee.

Alright,time to turn the corner. Fuck!
Why did I sew those bits together already? Idiot.
OK, got the hang of it now. Turn, turn, turn, oh fuck, that sucks. Shit. Cunt of a thing.
I hate this.
Yeah, that'll do.
Turn, damn, OK, no, that's OK. Shit.
*giggle*snort*
Nearly done. Cocksucker. You absolute cocksucking son of a monkey whore!
No, no, noooo. Fuck.
Got it.Yay. Bloody hell.
That sucked."

This is followed by a moment of smugness and then all too quickly by deflation once I notice the next 100 circles waiting for me to mentally injure myself on.

Those sneaky little yellow circley pricks.

Well, there you have it, you can see what kind of energy I'm imbuing this thing with.
Hence my general discomfort when people exclaim over the sweetness of my creations when I issue them.
Little do they know.

You can also see that mentally at least, I am certainly my father's daughter.

And fucking proud of it too.

Tischler! Tischler! Tischler!
Fuck! Shit ! Cock!

Accidentally Purple Quilt.

Ohhhh, shiiiiiiiit.

I accidentally made another quilt.

I didn't mean to, I was just looking for an excuse not to spend all day dealing with a very painful stage of making my dad's jigsaw quilt, and I happened to notice those 6 squares of various 6 inch purple fabrics from that mail out block swap which never really took off.

"Better sew those fuckers together", I thought.

But now those fuckers currently number 121 fully sewn squares, and despite the fact that I was busily cutting, ironing, swearing and hammering them through the sewing machine at an incredible pace, I had no idea who those fuckers were for.

Purple's OK. I like purple.

I thought maybe I'd make it for my friend Pam, who could use it in her spiritual healing room. Or for my 10 year old niece, Yassie.
Nah, Yasmin's a green girl like me.

In the midst of my excitement, I closed my eyes, and just tried to match the vibe of the fabric (don't I sound flakey?) with the person....MAHEB!!!

FFS OF COURSE! My friend MAHEB.
The original purple FREAK!
Going through a rough patch too. Perfect!

At that precise moment, Jeff magically appeared at the door and handed me the phone......MAHEB!

Now, I can keep a secret, but not if it's my own.
Yours are quite safe, don't worry.

So, poor thing, within 10 seconds she knew I was making her a quilt, knew that it was purple, knew that it was all deliberately sewn backwards and that I'd knicked off to the belligerent quilting cow shop that very morning in order to expand my purple stash from plenty to fucking ridiculous, thank you very much.

A healthy stash is a beautiful thing. It really is.

Then today, I scrunched up said quilt top in my new Souths bag and tootled off to work with it for show and tell.
I also took the lunch box full of lollies that were left over from the re-make of Nanna's lolly jar blog.
We had a good day. ;O)

When I said that I'd sewn it all backwards, I meant it.
Once you clip the seams, they go all shaggy and look really cool.

And when I said I visited a belligerent fabric cow, I meant that too.

She's my hero.
She has a huge quad garage out the back of her suburban house filled with fabric.
And cats.

And it's all at a fraction of the cost that it is in a normal patchwork store.

But the best thing is that she really and truly hates people.
I'm down with that.
But I find it so enjoyable to watch her try to contain her angst that I feel compelled to engage her in annoying friendly conversation, even at the expense of my own health and mental well being.

It's hilarious.
She grunts out only the most basic pleasantries with such disdain and barely disguised disgust, that I can't help but see it as the all clear to demand more from her.

I ensure that the tone of my voice remains hideously familiar and invasive. I pepper her with the type of questions that she would clearly rather lose a limb than have to answer.

And I enjoy myself immensely.

As I leave I say "OK!!! Bye!!!I'll see you soon!!!", with all the energy and moderation you would usually reserve for dropping a 3 year old at day care.

My God, she must loathe the very sight of me.
But I love the very sight of her.
It's a symbiotic relationship.

And you know what I like about that place so much?
Apart from the fabric and the belligerent fabric cow?

Usually when you buy fabric -even from Ebay, the retailer will tell you that it comes from a smoke free, pet free environment.

Nuh-uh.

At this joint, I swear to you, she often has three lit cigarettes in each hand at any one time and there are 2 cats and a dog who hang around in there and sleep on the fabric.
I have picked up bolts before only to find them covered with ginger fluffs, and lots of it.
Saves my cats time.
If I ever find a print with a coughed up hair ball, I'm buying the entire bolt. Stuff it.

The smell of stale smoke is so intense that you must wash and air everything for days to restore it to health.
And God help you if you cough in there. She lights up deliberately and stares at you, willing you to object...
As much as I hate cigarette smoke, I immediately move straight over to where she is, in a bid to confound her and her dastardly plan.
So far, so good.

* hack* hack* hack*

PS Gretchen. I in no way forgot that you are a purple girl, or that you really want a quilt. I will bring you something special when I come tailgating/Bundrenetting. Just calm down.